the wall, arose quickly, after an undecided, prayerful moment, a little figure in a gray cloak and broad, gray velvet hat, but it was such a little figure, and the radiant face was hidden by such a broad hat, and the little figure dropped back into its seat so hurriedly, that, in looking over the church, neither the pastor nor the evangelist noticed it.  Her heart gave one great jump when the pastor arose and remarked in a grieved and surprised tone:  “I am sorry that there is not one among us, young or old, ready to seek our Saviour to-night.”

The head under the gray hat drooped lower, the radiant face became for one instant sorrowful.  As they were moving down the aisle an old lady, who had been seated next to Marjorie, whispered to her, “I’m sorry they didn’t see you, dear.”

“Never mind,” said the bright voice, “God saw me.”

Hollis saw her, also, and his heart smote him.  This timid little girl had been braver than he.  From the group of boys in the gallery he had looked down at her and wondered.  But she was a girl, and girls did not mind doing such things as boys did; being good was a part of Marjorie’s life, she wouldn’t be Marjorie without it.  There was a letter in his pocket from his uncle bidding him to come to the city without delay; he pushed through the crowd to find Marjorie, “it would be fun to see how sorry she would look,” but her father had hurried her out and lifted her into the sleigh, and he saw the gray hat in the moonlight close to her father’s shoulder.

As he was driving to the train the next afternoon, he jumped out and ran up to the door to say good-bye to her.

Marjorie opened the door, arrayed in a blue checked apron with fingers stained with peeling apples.

“Good-bye, I’m off,” he shouted, resisting the impulse to catch her in his arms and kiss her.

“Good-bye, I’m so glad, and so sorry,” she exclaimed with a shadowed face.

“I wish I had something to give you to remember me by,” he said suddenly.

“I think you have given me lots of things.”

“Come, Hol, don’t stand there all day,” expostulated his brother from the sleigh.

“Good-bye, then,” said Hollis.

“Good-bye,” said Marjorie.  And then he was off and the bells were jingling down the road and she had not even cautioned him “Be a good boy.”  She wished she had had something to give him to remember her by; she had never done one thing to help him remember her and when he came back in years and years they would both be grown up and not know each other.

“Marjie, you are taking too thick peels,” remonstrated her mother.  For the next half hour she conscientiously refrained from thinking of any thing but the apples.

“Oh, Marjie,” exclaimed Linnet, “peel one whole, be careful and don’t break it, and throw it over your right shoulder and see what letter comes.”

“Why?” asked Magorie, selecting a large, fair apple to peel.