Aunt Prue and Marjorie must be talking “secrets.”

“Deborah,” standing beside her and looking seriously up into the kindly, wrinkled face, “I wish you knew some secrets.”

“La! child, I know too many.”

“Will you tell me one.  Just one.  I never heard a secret in my life.  Marjorie knows one, and she’s telling Aunt Prue now.”

“Secrets are not for little girls.”

“I would never, never tell,” promised Prue, coaxingly.

“Not even me!” cried Marjorie behind her.  “Now come upstairs with me and see Morris’ mother.  Aunt Prue is not ready for you yet awhile.”

Mrs. Kemlo’s chamber was the guest chamber; many among the poor and suffering whom Miss Prudence had delighted to honor had “warmed both hands before the fire of life” in that luxurious chamber.

Everything in the room had been among her father’s wedding presents to herself—­the rosewood furniture, the lace curtains, the rare engravings, the carpet that was at once perfect to the tread and to the eye, the ornaments everywhere:  everything excepting the narrow gilt frame over the dressing bureau, enclosing on a gray ground, painted in black, crimson, and gold the words:  “I HAVE SEEN THY TEARS.”  Miss Prudence had placed it there especially for Mrs. Kemlo.

Deborah had never been alone in the house in the years when her mistress was making a home for herself elsewhere.

Over the mantel hung an exquisite engraving of the thorn-crowned head of Christ.  The eyes that had wept so many hopeless tears were fixed upon it as Marjorie and Prue entered the chamber.

“This is Miss Prudence’s little girl Prue,” was Marjorie’s introduction.

Prue kissed her and stood at her side waiting for her to speak.

“That is the Lord,” Prue said, at last, breaking the silence after Marjorie had left them; “our dear Lord.”

Mrs. Kemlo kept her eyes upon it, but made no response.

“What makes him look so sorry, Morris’ mother?”

“Because he is grieving for our sins.”

“I thought the thorns hurt his head.”

“Not so much as our sins pierced his heart.”

“I’m sorry if I have hurt him.  What made our sins hurt him so?”

“His great love to us.”

“Nobody’s sins ever hurt me so.”

“You do not love anybody well enough.”

The spirit of peace was brooding, at last, over the worn face.  Morris had left her with his heart at rest, for the pain on lip and brow began to pass away in the first hour of Miss Prudence’s presence.

Prue was summoned after what to her seemed endless waiting, and, nestling in Aunt Prue’s lap, with her head on her shoulder and her hand in hers, she sat still in a content that would not stir itself by one word.

“Little Prue, I want to tell you a story.”

“Oh, good!” cried Prue, nestling closer to express her appreciation.