"Yes," she had replied, "Will says we are heirs together of the grace of life."
XXI.
MORRIS AGAIN.
"Overshadow me, O Lord,
With the comfort of thy wings."
Marjorie stood before the parlor grate; it was Saturday afternoon, and she was dressed for travelling—not for a long journey, for she was only going home to remain over Sunday and Monday, Monday being Washington's Birthday, and a holiday. She had seen Linnet those few days that she visited them on her return from her voyage, and her father and mother not once since she came to Maple Street in September. She was hungry for home; she said she was almost starving.
"I wish you a very happy time," said Miss Prudence as she opened
Marjorie's pocketbook to drop a five-dollar bill into its emptiness.
"I know it will be a happy time," Marjorie affirmed; "but I shall think of you and Prue, and want to be here, too."
"I wish I could go, too," said Prue, dancing around her with Marjorie's shawl strap in her hand.
There was a book for her father in the shawl strap, "The Old Bibie and the New Science"; a pretty white cap for her mother, that Miss Prudence had fashioned; a cherry-silk tie for Linnet; and a couple of white aprons for Annie Grey, her mother's handmaiden, these last being also Miss Prudence's handiwork.
"Wait till next summer, Prue. Aunt Prue wants to bring you for the sea bathing."