But then—­Miss Prudence had money, and she would never have money.  In a little old book of Miss Prudence’s there was a list of names,—­Miss Prudence had shown it to her,—­against several names was written “Gone home;” against others, “Done;” and against as many as a dozen, “Something to do.”  The name of Morris’ mother was included in the last.  Marjorie hoped the opportunity to do that something had come at last; but what could it be?  She could not influence Morris’ hardhearted sisters to understand their mother and be tender towards her:  even she could not do that.  What would Miss Prudence think of?  Marjorie was sure that his mother would be comforted and Morris satisfied.  She hoped Morris would not have to settle on the “land,” he loved the water with such abounding enthusiasm, he was so ready for his opportunities and so devoted to becoming a sailor missionary.  What a noble boy he was!  She had never loved him as she loved him at this moment, as he stood there in all his young strength and beauty, willing to give up his own planned life to serve the mother whom his sisters had cast off.  He was like that hero she had read about—­rather were not all true heroes like him?  It was queer, she had not thought of it once since;—­why did she think of it now?—­but, that day Miss Prudence had come to see her so long ago, the day she found her asleep in her chair, she had been reading in her Sunday school library about some one like Morris, just as unselfish, just as ready to serve Christ anywhere, and—­perhaps it was foolish and childish—­she would be ashamed to tell any one beside God about it—­she had asked him to let some one love her like him, and then she had fallen asleep.  Oh, and—­Morris had not given her that thing he had brought to her.  Perhaps it was a book she wanted, she was always wanting a book—­or it might be some curious thing from Italy.  Had he forgotten it?  She cared to have it now more than she cared last night; what was the matter with her last night that she cared so little?  She did “look up” to him more than she knew herself, she valued his opinion, she was more to herself because she was so much to him.  There was no one in the world that she opened her heart to as she opened it to him; not Miss Prudence, even, sympathetic as she was; she would not mind so very, very much if he knew about that foolish, childish prayer.  But she could not ask him what he had brought her; she had almost, no, quite, refused it last night.  How contradictory and uncomfortable she was!  She must say good-bye, now, too.

During her reverie she had retreated to the front parlor and stood leaning over the closed piano, her wraps all on for school and shawl strap of books in her hand.

“O, Marjorie, ready for school!  May I walk with you?  I’ll come back and see Miss Prudence afterward.”

“Will you?” she asked, demurely; “but that will only prolong the agony of saying good-bye.”

“As it is a sort of delicious agony we do not need to shorten it.  Good-bye, Prue,” he cried, catching one of Prue’s curls in his fingers as he passed.  “You will be a school-girl with a shawl strap of books, by and by, and you will put on airs and think young men are boys.”