"Marjorie, I don't know what I am thinking of to let you sit up so late; I shall have to send you upstairs with Prue after this. Linnet's hour was nine o'clock when she was studying, and look at her and Nannie Rheid."
"But I'm not getting through to be married, as Linnet was."
"How do you know?" asked Miss Prudence.
"Not intentionally, then," smiled Marjorie, opening her eyes this time.
"I'm not the old maid that eschews matrimony; all I want is to choose for you and Prue."
"Not yet, please," said Marjorie, lifting her hands in protest.
"What is it that tires you so to-night? School?
"No," answered Marjorie, sitting upright; "school sits as lightly on my shoulders as that black lace scarf you gave me yesterday; it is because I grow more and more wicked every night. I am worse than I was last night. I tried to read in the Bible just now and I did not care for it one bit, or understand it one bit; I began to think I never should find anything to do me good in Malachi, or in any of the old prophets."
"Suppose you read to me awhile—not in the Bible, but in your Sunday-school book. You told Prue that it was fascinating. 'History of the Reformation,' isn't it?"
"To-night? O, Aunt Prue, I'm too tired."