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I have been trying to teach her, and now God has taught her so that she can rejoice in his love. Whom the Lord loveth, she says, he chastens; and he knows how he has chastened her. If it were not for his love, Marjorie, what would keep our hearts from breaking?" "Papa died, too," said Prue. Marjorie went down to the parlor. Mrs. Kemlo was sitting at the grate, leaning back in her steamer chair.
I forgot she was your pastor's wife. But it's too late now." "Prue!" Miss Prudence laid her hand on Prue's head to keep her quiet. "Ask Marjorie and Mrs. Kemlo and Deborah to come into the parlor." "We are to be married, Prue!" said John Holmes. "Who is?" asked Prue. "Aunt Prue and I. Don't you want papa and mamma instead of Uncle John and Aunt Prue?" "Yes; I do! Wait for us to come.
"I don't know." "Why don't you know." "I have not thought about it for so long. Let me see what kind of letters did you write. Were they interesting?" "Yours were interesting. Were you hurt because " It happened so long ago that she smiled as she looked up at him. "I have never told you the reason. I thought Morris Kemlo had a prior claim." "What right had you to think that?"
Holmes, or "Miss Prudence" and "Aunt Prue," as she was called, a lady whose slight figure had become rounded and whose white hair shaded a fair face full of peace. There was no resisting such persuasions as those of Mrs. Kemlo, the girls' mother, and the "girls" themselves; and almost before they had decided upon it they found themselves installed at Mrs. West's for the summer.
The chief business of the nursing fell to Marjorie; her mother was rather too energetic for the comfort of the sickroom, and there was always so much to be attended to outside that quiet chamber. "Marjorie knows her father's way," Mrs. West apologized to Mrs. Kemlo. "He never has to tell her what he wants; but I have to make him explain. There are born nurses, and I'm not one of them.
It was the morning after Prue had heard the story of her father; it was Saturday morning and she was in the kitchen "helping Deborah bake." Mrs. Kemlo was resting in a steamer chair near the register in the back parlor, resting and listening; the listening was in itself a rest.
Kemlo. Deborah had never been alone in the house in the years when her mistress was making a home for herself elsewhere. Over the mantel hung an exquisite engraving of the thorn-crowned head of Christ. The eyes that had wept so many hopeless tears were fixed upon it as Marjorie and Prue entered the chamber. "This is Miss Prudence's little girl Prue," was Marjorie's introduction.
I'll run and tell them," she answered, fleeing away. "John, this is a very irregular proceeding!" "It quite befits the occasion, however," he answered gravely. Very slowly they walked toward the house. All color had left Miss Prudence's cheeks and lips. Deborah was sure she would faint; but Mrs. Kemlo watched her lips, and knew by the firm lines that she would not.
Everything is helping me now; if I were writing to you I could tell you some of them." "I like to hear you talk, Marjorie." "Do you?" she asked wonderingly. "Linnet does, too, and Mrs. Kemlo. As I shall never write a book, I must learn to talk, and talk myself all out. Aunt Prue is living her book." "Tell me something that has helped you," he urged.
There was a shower that night, and your mother tried to keep me; and I wished she had more than a few times on my dark way home." "It is almost time to hear from Will." Marjorie had no taste for reminiscences. "I expect to hear every day." "So do we. Mrs. Kemlo watches up the street and down the street for the postman." "Oh, yes. Morris. I forgot. Does he like the life?" "He is enthusiastic."
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