The horse's rock sounded a little softened. "And next year perhaps a flower may grow for you in this garden."
"I will try," Marjorie answered. "But if I never come back, how shall I know?"
"By your own feelings. When it grows, its fragrance reaches down to the world, and brings you peace and happiness. You will not need to be told that somewhere a blossom is waiting for you. God's garden paths reach down to every heart."
Marjorie sprang up. She was in her own room; it had grown dark, the fire was dying away, and there was Uncle John in his great-coat looking at her and laughing.
"Well, Pussy," he exclaimed, "you're a great girl to go to sleep. Come, I want you to go out with me and buy New-Year's presents for the Williamsons. Hurry up."
Marjorie felt dazed. What had she been dreaming about?
"Why," she said, and looked around to see her horse standing very still and bright-eyed in the middle of the room—"why, where's Augusta, on the Kennebec?" she said, suddenly, rubbing her eyes.
Uncle John roared laughing. "You've been studying too much lately, Puss," he said, kindly.
"No, I haven't," said Marjorie. "I've been a mean girl."