Miss Prudence was moving around easily, giving a touch to something here and there, and after closing the piano slipped away; and, before they knew it, they were alone, standing on the hearth rug looking gravely and almost questioningly into each others’ eyes.  Marjorie smiled, remembering the quarrel of that last night; would he think now that she had become too much like Miss Prudence,—­Miss Prudence, with her love of literature, her ready sympathy and neat, housewifely ways, Prue did not know which she liked better, Aunt Prue’s puddings or her music.

The color rose in Morris’ face, Marjorie’s lip trembled slightly.  She seated herself in the chair she had been occupying and asked Morris to make himself at home in Miss Prudence’s chair directly opposite.  He dropped into it, threw his head back and allowed his eyes to rove over everything in the room, excepting that flushed, half-averted face so near to him.  She was becoming like Miss Prudence, he had decided the matter in the study of these few moments, that attitude when standing was Miss Prudence’s, and her position at this moment, the head a little drooping, the hands laid together in her lap, was exactly Miss Prudence’s; Miss Prudence’s when she was meditating as Marjorie was meditating now.  There was a poise of the head like the elder lady’s, and now and then a stateliness and dignity that were not Marjorie’s own when she was his little friend and companion in work and study at home.  In these first moments he could discern changes better than to-morrow; to-morrow he would be accustomed to her again; to-morrow he would find the unchanged little Marjorie that hunted eggs and went after the cows.  He could not explain to himself why he liked that Marjorie better; he could not explain to himself that he feared Miss Prudence’s Marjorie would hold herself above the second mate of the barque Linnet; a second mate whose highest ambition to become master.  Linnet had not held her self above Captain Will, but Linnet had never loved books as Marjorie did.  Morris was provoked at himself.  Did not he love books, and why then should he quarrel with Marjorie?  It was not for loving books, but for loving books better than—­anything!  Had Mrs. Browning loved books better than anything, or Mary Somerville, or Fredrika Bremer?—­yes, Fredrika Bremer had refused to be married, but there was Marjorie’s favorite—­

“Tell me all about Linnet,” said Marjorie, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“I have—­and she has written.”

“But you never can write all.  Did she bring me the branch of mulberry from Mt.  Vesuvius?”

“Yes, and will bring it to you next week.  She said she would come to you because she was sure you would not want to leave school; and she wants to see Miss Prudence.  I told her she would wish herself a girl again, and it was dangerous for her to come, but she only laughed.  I have brought you something, too, Marjorie,” he said unsteadily.