Mrs. Rheid pondered night and day before she wrote to Hollis what Marjorie’s mother had said; but he never answered that part of the letter, and his mother never knew whether she had done harm or good.  Poor little Marjorie could have told her, with an indignation that she would have been frightened at; but Marjorie never knew.  I’m afraid she would not have felt like kissing her mother good-night if she had known it.

Her father looked grave and anxious that night when her mother told him, as in duty bound she was to tell him everything, how she was arranging things for Marjorie’s comfort.

“That was wrong, Sarah, that was wrong,” he said.

“How wrong?  I don’t see how it was wrong?” she had answered sharply.

“Then I cannot explain to you, Marjorie isn’t hurt any; I don’t believe she cares half as much as you do?”

“You don’t know; you don’t see her all the time.”

“She misses Linnet and Morris, and perhaps she grieves about going away.  You remind me of some one in the Bible—­a judge.  He had thirty sons and thirty daughters and he got them all married!  It’s well for your peace of mind that you have but two.”

“It’s no laughing matter,” she rejoined.

“No, it is not,” he sighed, for he understood Marjorie.

How the tears would have burned dry on Marjorie’s indignant cheeks had she surmised one tithe of her mother’s remonstrance and defence; it is true she missed his letters, and she missed writing her long letters to him, but she did not miss him as she would have missed Morris had some misunderstanding come between them.  She was full of her home and her studies, and she felt herself too young to think grown-up thoughts and have grown-up experiences; she felt herself to be so much younger than Linnet.  But her pride was touched, simple-hearted as she was she wanted Hollis to care a little for her letters.  She had tried to please him and to be thoughtful about his mother and grandmother; and this was not a pleasant ending.  Her mother had watched her, she was well aware, and she was glad to come away with Miss Prudence to escape her mother’s keen eyes.  Her father had kissed her tenderly more than once, as though he were seeking to comfort her for something.  It was such a relief—­and she drew a long breath as she thought of it—­to be away from both, and to be with Miss Prudence, who never saw anything, or thought anything, or asked any questions.  A few tears dropped slowly as she cuddled in the chair with her head on its arm, she hardly knew why; because she was alone, perhaps, and Linnet was so far off, and it rained, and Miss Prudence and her little girl might not come home to-night, and, it might be, because Miss Prudence had another little girl to love.

Miss Prudence had gone to New York, a week ago, to meet the child and to visit the Rheids.  The nurse had relatives in the city and preferred to remain with them, but Prue would be ready to come home with Miss Prudence, and it was possible that they might come to-night.