"I am bright."
"What has happened to you?"
"I can tell you about it now. I have been troubled—more than troubled, almost in despair—because I could not feel that I was a Christian. I thought I was all the more wicked because I professed to be one. And to-day it is all gone—the trouble. And in such a simple way. As I was coming out of Sunday school I overheard somebody say to Mrs. Rich, 'I know I'm not a Christian.' 'Then,' said Mrs. Rich, 'I'd begin this very hour to be one, if I were you.' And it flashed over me why need I bemoan myself any longer; why not begin this very hour; and I did."
"I'm very glad," said Linnet, in her simple, hearty way. "I never had anything like that on my mind, and I know it must be dreadful."
"Dreadful?" repeated Marjorie. "It is being lost away from Christ."
"Mrs. Rheid told Hollis that you were going into a decline, that mother said so, and Will and I were planning what we could do for you."
"Nobody need plan now," smiled Marjorie. "Shall we have some music? We'll sing Will's hymns."
"How your voice sounds!"
"That's why I want to sing. I want to pour it all out."
The next evening Hollis accompanied Linnet on her way to Marjorie's to spend the evening. Marjorie's pale face and mourning dress had touched him deeply. He had taught a class of boys near her class in Sunday school, and had been struck with the dull, mechanical tone in which she had questioned the attentive little girls who crowded around her.