Marjorie removed the white hood that she had travelled from California in, and, brushing back the curls that shone in the light like threads of gold, kissed her forehead and cheeks and rosy lips.
"I am your Cousin Marjorie, and you are my little cousin."
"I like you, Cousin Marjorie," the child said.
"Of course you do, and I love you. Are you Prue, or Jeroma?"
"I'm Prue," she replied with dignity. "Don't you ever call me Jeroma again, ever; papa said so."
Marjorie laughed and kissed her again.
"I never, never will," she promised.
"Aunt Prue says 'Prue' every time."
Marjorie unbuttoned the gray cloak and drew off the gray gloves; Prue threw off the cloak and then lifted her foot for the rubber to be pulled off.
"I had no rubbers; Aunt Prue bought these in New York."