“She is with Delia now; the girls toss her back one to the other, and Clara wants to put her into the Old Lady’s Home.  She is a shadow on the house—­they have no patience with her.  They are not Christians, and their husbands are not—­they do not understand; Delia’s husband contends that she is crazy; but she is not, she is only in despair.  They say she is no help, only a hindrance, and they want to get rid of her.  She will not work about the house, she will not sew or help in anything, she says she cannot read the Bible—­”

“How long since she has felt so?”

“Two years now.  I would not tell you to worry you, but now I must tell some one, for something must be done.  Delia has never been very kind to her since she was married.  I have no home for her; what am I to do?  I could not ask any happy home to take her in; I cannot bear to think of the Old Lady’s Home for her, she will think her children have turned her off.  And the girls have.”

“Ask Miss Prudence what to do,” said Marjorie brightly, “she always knows.”

“I intend to.  But she has been so kind to us all.  Indeed, that was one of my motives in coming here.  Between themselves the girls may send her somewhere while I am gone and I want to make that impossible.  When I am captain I will take mother around the world.  I will show her how good God is everywhere.  Poor mother!  She is one of those bubbling-over temperaments like Linnet’s and when she is down she is all the way down.  Who would have anything to live for if they did not believe in the love of God?  Would I?  Would you?”

“I could not live; I would die,” said Marjorie vehemently.

“She does not live, she exists!  She is emaciated; sometimes she fasts day after day until she is too weak to move around—­she says she must fast while she prays.  O, Marjorie, I’m sorry to let you know there is such sorrow in the world.”

“Why should I not know about sorrow?” asked Marjorie, gravely.  “Must I always be joyful?”

“I want you to be.  There is no sorrow like this sorrow.  I know something about it; before I could believe that God had forgiven me I could not sleep or eat.”

“I always believed it, I think,” said Marjorie simply.

“I want her to be with some one who loves her and understands her; the girls scold her and find fault with her, and she has been such a good mother to them; perhaps she let them have their own way too much, and this is one of the results of it.  She has worked while they slept, and has taken the hardest of everything for them.  And now in her sore extremity they want to send her among strangers.  I wish I had a home of my own.  If I can do no better, I will give up my position, and stay on land and make some kind of a home for her.”

“Oh, not yet.  Don’t decide so hastily.  Tell Miss Prudence.  Telling her a thing is the next best thing to praying about it,” said Marjorie, earnestly.