“Aren’t you glad, Marjorie?”

“I’m glad I’m home with you, and I’m glad you are to give me my dinner.”

“It’s a very nice dinner,” answered Prue, gravely; “roast beef and potatoes and tomatoes and pickled peaches and apple pie, unless you want lemon pie instead.  I took lemon pie.  Which will you have?”

“Lemon,” said Marjorie.

“But you don’t look glad about anything.  Didn’t you know your lessons to-day?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’ll put your things on the hat-rack and you can get warm while I tell Deborah to put your dinner on the table.  I think you are cold and that is why you can’t be glad.  I don’t like to be cold.”

“I’m not cold now,” laughed Marjorie.

“Now you feel better!  And I’m to sit up until you go to bed, and you are to sleep with me; and won’t it be splendid for me to go to school and take my lunch, too?  And I can have jelly on my bread and an orange just as you do.”

Marjorie was awake long before Deborah entered the chamber to kindle the fire, trying to form some excuse to keep Prue from going to school with her.  How could she take her to-day of all days; for the girls to look at her, and whisper to each other, and ask her questions, and to study critically her dress, and to touch her hair, and pity her and kiss her!  And she would be sure to open the round gold locket she wore upon a tiny gold chain about her neck and tell them it was “my papa who died in California.”

She was very proud of showing “my papa.”

What excuse could she make to the child?  It was not storming, and she did not have a cold, and her heart did seem so set on it.  The last thing after she came upstairs last night she had opened the inside blinds to look out to see if it were snowing.  And she had charged Deborah to have the fire kindled early so that she would not be late at breakfast.

She must go herself.  She could concoct no reason for remaining at home herself; her throat had been a trifle sore last night, but not even the memory of it could bring it back this morning.

Deborah had a cough, if she should be taken ill—­but there was the fire crackling in the airtight in confirmation of Deborah’s ability to be about the house; or if Prue—­but the child was never ill.  Her cheeks were burning last night, but that was with the excitement of the anticipation.  If somebody should come!  But who?  She had not stayed at home for Morris, and Linnet would not come early enough to keep them at home, that is if she ought to remain at home for Linnet.

What could happen?  She could not make anything happen?  She could not tell the child the naked truth, the horrible truth.  And she could not tell her a lie.  And she could not break her heart by saying that she did not want her to go.  Oh, if Miss Prudence were only at home to decide!  But would she tell her the reason?  If she did not take Prue she must tell Miss Prudence the whole story.  She would rather go home and never go to school any more than to do that.  Oh, why must things happen all together?  Prue would soon be awake and asking if it were storming.  She had let her take it for granted last night; she could not think of anything to say.  Once she had said in aggrieved voice: