“Won’t you please stay home with me and make molasses candy, or peppermint drops?”

“We’ll do it after school! won’t that do?  And you can stay with Deborah in the kitchen, and she’ll tell you stories.”

“Her stories are sad,” said Prue, mournfully.

“Ask her to tell you a funny one, then.”

“I don’t believe she knows any.  She told me yesterday about her little boy who didn’t want to go to school one day and she was washing and said he might stay home because he coaxed so hard.  And she went to find him on the wharf and nobody could tell her where he was.  And she went down close to the water and looked in and he was there with his face up and a stick in his hand and he was dead in the water and she saw him.”

“Is that true?” asked Marjorie, in surprise.

“Yes, true every word.  And then her husband died and she came to live with Aunt Prue’s father and mother ever so long ago.  And she cried and it was sad.”

“But I know she knows some funny stories.  She will tell you about Aunt Prue when she was little.”

“She has told me.  And about my papa.  He used to like to have muffins for tea.”

“Oh, I know!  Now I know!  I’ll take you to Lizzie Harrowgate’s to stay until I come from school.  You will like that.  There is a baby there and a little girl four years old.  Do you want to go?”

“If I can’t go to school, I do,” in a resigned voice.

“And you must not speak of school; remember, Prue, do not say that you wanted to go, or that I wouldn’t take you; do not speak of school at all.”

“No, I will not,” promised Prue; “and when that thing doesn’t happen any more you will take me?”

XIX.

A STORY THAT WAS NOT VERY SAD.

“Children have neither past nor future; and, what scarcely ever happens to us, they enjoy the present.”—­Bruyere.

Prue was watching at the window with Minnie Harrowgate, and was joyfully ready to go home to see Aunt Prue when Marjorie and Lizzie Harrowgate appeared.

Standing a few moments near the parlor register, while Prue ran to put on her wraps, Marjorie’s eye would wander to the Holland plate on the bracket.  She walked home under a depression that was not all caused by the dread of meeting Miss Prudence.  They found Miss Prudence on the stairs, coming down with a tray of dishes.

“O, Aunt Prue!  Aunt Prue!” was Prue’s exclamation.  “I didn’t go to school, I went to Mrs. Harrowgate’s instead.  Marjorie said I must, because something dreadful happened in school and I never could go until it never happened again.  But I’ve had a splendid time, and I want to go again.”

Miss Prudence bent over to kiss her, and gave her the tray to take into the kitchen.

“You may stay with Deborah, dear, till I call you.”

Marjorie dropped her shawl-strap of books on the carpet of the hall and stood at the hat-stand hanging up her cloak and hat.  Miss Prudence had kissed her, but they had not looked into each other’s eyes.