Miss Prudence's arm was about her, and she was gently drawn into the parlor; not to sit down, for Miss Prudence began slowly to walk up and down the long length of the room, keeping Marjorie at her side. They paused an instant before the mirror, between the windows in the front parlor, and both glanced in: a slight figure in gray, for she had put off her mourning at last, with a pale, calm face, and a plump little creature in brown, with a flushed face and full eyes—the girl growing up, and the girl grown up.
For fully fifteen minutes they paced slowly and in silence up and down the soft carpet. Miss Prudence knew when they stood upon the very spot where Prue's father—not Prue's father then—had bidden her that lifetime long farewell. God had blessed her and forgiven him. Was it such a very sad story then?
Miss Prudence dropped into a chair as if her strength were spent, and
Marjorie knelt beside her and laid her head on the arm of her chair.
"It is true, Marjorie."
"I know it. Master McCosh heard it and he said it was true."
"It will make a difference, a great difference. I shall take Prue away. I must write to John to-night."
"I'm so glad you have him, Aunt Prue. I'm so glad you and Prue have him."
Miss Prudence knew now, herself: never before had she known how glad she was to have him; how glad she had been to have him all her life. She would tell him that, to-night, also. She was not the woman to withhold a joy that belonged to another.
Marjorie did not raise her head, and therefore did not catch the first flash of the new life that John Holmes would see when he looked into them.
"He is so good, Aunt Prue," Marjorie went on. "He is a Christian when he speaks to a dog."