Was it possible that Miss Prudence suspected?  Marjorie asked herself as she took off her rubbers.  She suffered her to pass into the front parlor, and waited alone in the hall until she could gather courage to follow her.  But the courage did not come, she trembled and choked, and the slow tears rolled over her cheeks.

“Marjorie!”

Miss Prudence was at her side.

“O, Miss Prudence!  O, dear Aunt Prue, I don’t want to tell you,” she burst out; “they said things about her father and about you, and I can’t tell you.”

Miss Prudence’s arm was about her, and she was gently drawn into the parlor; not to sit down, for Miss Prudence began slowly to walk up and down the long length of the room, keeping Marjorie at her side.  They paused an instant before the mirror, between the windows in the front parlor, and both glanced in:  a slight figure in gray, for she had put off her mourning at last, with a pale, calm face, and a plump little creature in brown, with a flushed face and full eyes—­the girl growing up, and the girl grown up.

For fully fifteen minutes they paced slowly and in silence up and down the soft carpet.  Miss Prudence knew when they stood upon the very spot where Prue’s father—­not Prue’s father then—­had bidden her that lifetime long farewell.  God had blessed her and forgiven him.  Was it such a very sad story then?

Miss Prudence dropped into a chair as if her strength were spent, and Marjorie knelt beside her and laid her head on the arm of her chair.

“It is true, Marjorie.”

“I know it.  Master McCosh heard it and he said it was true.”

“It will make a difference, a great difference.  I shall take Prue away.  I must write to John to-night.”

“I’m so glad you have him, Aunt Prue.  I’m so glad you and Prue have him.”

Miss Prudence knew now, herself:  never before had she known how glad she was to have him; how glad she had been to have him all her life.  She would tell him that, to-night, also.  She was not the woman to withhold a joy that belonged to another.

Marjorie did not raise her head, and therefore did not catch the first flash of the new life that John Holmes would see when he looked into them.

“He is so good, Aunt Prue,” Marjorie went on. “He is a Christian when he speaks to a dog.”

“Don’t you want to go upstairs and see Morris’ mother?  She was excited a little, and I promised her that she should not come down-stairs to-night.”

“But I don’t know her,” said Marjorie rising.

“I think you do.  And she knows you.  She has come here to learn how good God is, and I want you to help me show it to her.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Be your sweet, bright self, and sing all over the house all the comforting hymns you know.”

“Will she like that?”

“She likes nothing so well.  I sung her to sleep last night.”