"A farm of his own may make a difference. And a house of his own. I suppose the Captain thinks he is engaged to you."
Mrs. West was rubbing her thumb nail and not looking at Marjorie. Marjorie was playing with a chip, thrusting it into the fire and bringing it out lighted as she and Linnet used to like to do.
"Marjorie, is he?"
"No, ma'am," answered Marjorie, the corners of her lips twitching.
"I'd like to know why he isn't," with some asperity.
"Perhaps he knows," suggested Marjorie, looking at her lighted chip. It was childish; but she must be doing something, if her mother would insist upon talking about Hollis.
"Do you know?"
Marjorie dropped her chip into the stove and looked up at the broad figure in the wooden rocker—a figure in a black dress and gingham apron, with a neat white cap covering her gray hair, a round face, from which Marjorie had taken her roundness and dimples, a shrewd face with a determined mouth and the kindliest eyes that ever looked out upon the world. Marjorie looked at her and loved her.
"Mother, do you want to know? I haven't anything to tell you."
"Seems to me he's a long time about it."