She used to be sorry for Morris; but he did not seem lonesome:  he was always buried in a book at leisure times; and he said he would be sailing over the seas with his wife some day.

“Morris is so good” she added.  “Sometimes he has reminded me of the angels who came down to earth as young men.”

“I think he was a Christian before he was seven years old,” said his mother.

At night Marjorie said, when she conducted Linnet up to her chamber, that they would go back to the blessed old times, and build castles, and forget that Linnet was married and had crossed the ocean.

“I’m living in my castle now,” returned Linnet.  “I don’t want to build any more.  And this is lovelier than any we ever built.”

Marjorie looked at her, but she did not speak her thought; she almost wished that she might “grow up,” and be happy in Linnet’s way.

With a serious face Linnet lay awake after Marjorie had fallen asleep, thinking over and over Miss Prudence’s words when she bade her goodnight:—­

“It is an experience to be married, Linnet; for God holds your two lives as one, and each must share his will for the other; if joyful, it is twice as joyful; if hard, twice as hard.”

“Yes,” she had replied, “Will says we are heirs together of the grace of life.”

XXI.

MORRIS AGAIN.

“Overshadow me, O Lord,
With the comfort of thy wings.”

Marjorie stood before the parlor grate; it was Saturday afternoon, and she was dressed for travelling—­not for a long journey, for she was only going home to remain over Sunday and Monday, Monday being Washington’s Birthday, and a holiday.  She had seen Linnet those few days that she visited them on her return from her voyage, and her father and mother not once since she came to Maple Street in September.  She was hungry for home; she said she was almost starving.

“I wish you a very happy time,” said Miss Prudence as she opened Marjorie’s pocketbook to drop a five-dollar bill into its emptiness.

“I know it will be a happy time,” Marjorie affirmed; “but I shall think of you and Prue, and want to be here, too.”

“I wish I could go, too,” said Prue, dancing around her with Marjorie’s shawl strap in her hand.

There was a book for her father in the shawl strap, “The Old Bibie and the New Science”; a pretty white cap for her mother, that Miss Prudence had fashioned; a cherry-silk tie for Linnet; and a couple of white aprons for Annie Grey, her mother’s handmaiden, these last being also Miss Prudence’s handiwork.

“Wait till next summer, Prue.  Aunt Prue wants to bring you for the sea bathing.”

“Don’t be too sure, Marjorie; if Uncle John comes home he may have other plans for her.”

“Oh, is he coming home?” inquired Marjorie.

“He would be here to-day if I had not threatened to lock him out and keep him standing in a snowdrift until June.  He expects to be here the first day of summer.”