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They were going, now, to live with the grandmother in Boston, in Pilgrim Street. It was a comfortable, plain old house, in a little strip of neighborhood long since left of fashion, and not yet demanded of business; so Mrs. Rhynde could afford to occupy it.
She took the knitting-work and straightened it; raveled down, and picked up, and with nimble stitches restored the lost rows. Mrs. Rhynde looked up at her and smiled. Then she offered to read. She had not read a word aloud from a printed page since that night in Loweburg. The old lady wanted a hymn. Marion read "He leadeth me." The book opened of itself to that place.
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