The house had been so lonely with old Deborah it was no wonder that she began to cry!  And, it was foolish to remember that Holland plate in Mrs. Harrowgate’s parlor that she had seen to-day when she had stopped after school on an errand for Miss Prudence.  What a difference it had made to her that it was that plate on the bracket and not that yellow pitcher.  The yellow pitcher was in fragments now up in the garret; she must show it to Prue some rainy day and tell her about what a naughty little girl she had been that day.

That resolution helped to shake off her depression, she roused herself, went to the window and looked out into darkness, and then sauntered as far as the piano and seated herself to play the march that Hollis liked; Napoleon crossing the Alps.  But scarcely had she touched the keys before she heard voices out in the rain and feet upon the piazza.

Deborah’s old ears had caught an earlier sound, and before Marjorie could rush out the street door was opened and the travellers were in the hall.

Exclamations and warm embraces, and then Marjorie drew the little one into the parlor and before the fire.  The child stood with her grave eyes searching out the room, and when the light from the bronze lamp on the centre table flashed out upon everything she walked up and down the length of the apartment, stopping now and then to look curiously at something.

Marjorie smiled and thought to herself that she was a strange little creature.

“It’s just as papa said,” she remarked, coming to the rug, her survey being ended.  The childishness and sweet gravity of her tone were striking.

Marjorie removed the white hood that she had travelled from California in, and, brushing back the curls that shone in the light like threads of gold, kissed her forehead and cheeks and rosy lips.

“I am your Cousin Marjorie, and you are my little cousin.”

“I like you, Cousin Marjorie,” the child said.

“Of course you do, and I love you.  Are you Prue, or Jeroma?”

“I’m Prue,” she replied with dignity.  “Don’t you ever call me Jeroma again, ever; papa said so.”

Marjorie laughed and kissed her again.

“I never, never will,” she promised.

“Aunt Prue says ‘Prue’ every time.”

Marjorie unbuttoned the gray cloak and drew off the gray gloves; Prue threw off the cloak and then lifted her foot for the rubber to be pulled off.

“I had no rubbers; Aunt Prue bought these in New York.”

“Aunt Prue is very kind,” said Marjorie, as the second little foot was lifted.

“Does she buy you things, too?” asked Prue.

“Yes, ever and ever so many things.”

“Does she buy everybody things?” questioned Prue, curiously.

“Yes,” laughed Marjorie; “she’s everybody’s aunt.”

“No, I don’t buy everybody things.  I buy things for you and Marjorie because you are both my little girls.”