"Morris cannot help himself. He never resists me. Now go upstairs and kiss her, and tell her you are her boy's twin-sister."
Before the light tap on her door Mrs. Kemlo heard, and her heart was stirred as she heard it, the pleading, hopeful, trusting strains of "Jesus, lover of my soul."
Moving about in her own chamber, with her door open, Marjorie sang it all before she crossed the hall and gave her light tap on Mrs. Kemlo's door.
When Marjorie saw the face—the sorrowful, delicate face, and listened to the refined accent and pretty choice of words, she knew that Morris Kemlo was a gentleman because his mother was a lady.
Prue wandered around the kitchen, looking at things and asking questions.
Deborah was never cross to Prue.
It was a sunny kitchen in the afternoon, the windows faced west and south and Deborah's plants throve. Miss Prudence had taken great pleasure in making Deborah's living room a room for body and spirit to keep strong in. Old Deborah said there was not another room in the house like the kitchen; "and to think that Miss Prudence should put a lounge there for my old bones to rest on."
Prue liked the kitchen because of the plants. It was very funny to see such tiny sweet alyssum, such dwarfs of geranium, such a little bit of heliotrope, and only one calla among those small leaves.
"Just wait till you go to California with us, Deborah," she remarked this afternoon. "I'll show you flowers."
"I'm too old to travel, Miss Prue."
"No, you are not. I shall take you when I go. I can wait on Morris' mother, can't I? Marjorie said she and I were to help you if she came."