“I don’t see the need of deciding that question to-day.”

“I suppose not.  You will when Hollis Rheid asks you to.”

“Morris, you are not like yourself to-day, you are quarrelling with me, and we never quarrelled before.”

“Because you are so unreasonable; you will not answer me anything.”

“I have answered you truly; I have no other answer to give.”

“Will you think and answer me when I come home?”

“I have answered you now.”

“Perhaps you will have another answer then.”

“Well, if I have I will give it to you.  Are you satisfied?”

“No,” he said; but he turned her face up to his and looked down into her innocent earnest eyes.

“You are a goosie, as Linnet says; you will never grow up, little Marjorie.”

“Then, if I am only eight, you must not talk to me as if I were eighty.”

“Or eighteen,” he said.  “How far on the voyage of life do you suppose Linnet and Captain Will are.”

“Not far enough on to quarrel, I hope.”

“They will never be far enough for that, Will is too generous and Linnet will never find anything to differ about; do you know, Marjorie, that girl has no idea how Will loves her?”

Marjorie stopped and faced him with the utmost gravity.

“Do you know, Morris, that man has no idea how Linnet loves him?”

And then the two burst into a laugh that restored them both to the perfect understanding of themselves and each other and all the world.  And after an early supper he shook hands with them all—­excepting “Mother West,” whom he kissed, and Marjorie, whom he asked to walk as far as “Linnet’s” with him on his way to the train—­and before ten o’clock was on board the Linnet, and congratulating again the bridegroom, who was still radiant, and the bride, who was not looking in the least bit homesick.

“Will,” said Linnet with the weight of tone of one giving announcement to a mighty truth, “I wouldn’t be any one beside myself for anything.”

“And I wouldn’t have you any one beside yourself for anything,” he laughed, in the big, explosive voice that charmed Linnet every time afresh.

XIV.

A TALK AND ANOTHER TALK.

“Life’s great results are something slow.”—­Howells.

Morris had said good-bye with a look that brought sorrow enough in Marjorie’s eyes to satisfy him—­almost, and had walked rapidly on, not once turning to discover if Marjorie were standing still or moving toward home; Mr. Holmes and Miss Prudence had promised to start out to meet her, so that her walk homeward in the starlight would not be lonely.