Marjorie hoped he would not stay a whole week, as he proposed, if she had to cut the apples. And then, with a shock and revulsion at herself, she remembered that her father had read at worship that morning something about giving even a cup of cold water to a disciple for Christ's sake.
Linnet laughed again as she stooped to pick up the doubtful O and crooked S from the oilcloth.
But the letters had given Marjorie something to think about.
I had decided to hasten over the story of Marjorie's childhood and bring her into her joyous and promising girlhood, but the child's own words about the "other part" that she must have a "good deal" of have changed my mind. Surely God does care for the "other part," too.
And I wonder what it is in you (do you know?) that inclines you to hurry along and skip a little now and then, that you may discover whether Marjorie ever married Hollis? Why can't you wait and take her life as patiently as she did?
That same Saturday evening Marjorie's mother said to Marjorie's father, with a look of perplexity upon her face,
"Father, I don't know what to make of our Marjorie."
He was half dozing over the Agriculturist; he raised his head and asked sharply, "Why? What has she done now?"
Everybody knew that Marjorie was the apple of her father's eye.
"Nothing new! Only everything she does is new. She is two Marjories, and that's what I can't make out. She is silent and she is talkative; she is shy, very shy, and she is as bold as a little lion; sometimes she won't tell you anything, and sometimes she tells you everything; sometimes I think she doesn't love me, and again she loves me to death; sometimes I think she isn't as bright as other girls, and then again I'm sure she is a genius. Now Linnet is always the same; I always know what she will do and say; but there's no telling about Marjorie. I don't know what to make of her," she sighed.