"Oh, she is, and father is, too. I know I don't deserve such good times, but I do want to go. I love Miss Prudence as much as I do mother, I believe, and I am only forty miles from home. Mr. Holmes is about leaving, too. How father will miss him! And Morris gone! Mother sighs over the changes and then says changes must needs come if boys and girls will grow up."
"Where is Mr. Holmes going?"
"To California. The doctor says he must go somewhere to cure his cough.
And he says he will rest and write another book. Have you read his book?"
"No, it is too dry for me."
"We don't think it is dry; Morris and I know it by heart."
"That is because you know the author."
"Perhaps it is. The book is everything but a story book. Miss Prudence has a copy in Turkey morocco. Do you see many people that write books?"
"No," he said, smiling at her simplicity. "New York isn't full of them."
"Miss Prudence sees them," replied Marjorie with dignity.
"She is a bird of their feather. I do not fly, I walk on the ground—with my eyes on it, perhaps."