"Then, Marjorie, you will not write to me," he began afresh, after admiring the sumach.
"Oh, yes, I will! If you want to! I love to write letters; and my life isn't half full enough yet. I want new people in it."
"And you would as readily take me as another," he said, in a tone that she did not understand.
"More readily than one whom I do not know. I want you to hear extracts from one of Mrs. Holmes' delicious letters to-night."
"You are as happy as a lark to-day.
"That is what mother told me, only she did not specify the bird. Morris,
I am happier than I was Sunday morning."
He colored over the name. She smiled and said, "I've been thinking about him to-day, and wanting to tell him how changed I am."
"What has changed you?" he asked.
Her eyes filled before she could answer him. In a few brief sentences, sentences in which each word told, she gave him the story of her dark year.
"Poor little Mousie," he said tenderly. "And you bore the dark time all by yourself."