It was the morning after Prue had heard the story of her father; it was Saturday morning and she was in the kitchen “helping Deborah bake.”  Mrs. Kemlo was resting in a steamer chair near the register in the back parlor, resting and listening; the listening was in itself a rest.  It was a rest not to speak unless she pleased; it was a rest to listen to the low tones of cultured voices, to catch bits of bright talk about things that brought her out of herself; it was a rest, above all, to dwell in a home where God was in the midst; it was a rest to be free from the care of herself.  Was Miss Prudence taking care of her?  Was not God taking care of her through the love of Miss Prudence?

Marjorie was busy about her weekly mending, sitting at one of the front windows.  It was pleasant to sit there and see the sleighs pass and hear the bells jingle; it was pleasant to look over towards the church and the parsonage; and pleasantest of all to bring her eyes into Miss Prudence’s face and work basket and the work in her lap for Prue.

“But I mean—­faces,” acknowledged Marjorie.  “I mean faces—­too.  I don’t see why, of all the beautiful things God has made, faces should be ignored.  The human face, with the love of God in it, is more glorious than any painting, more glorious than any view of mountain, lake, or river.”

“I don’t believe I know what beauty is.”

“You know what you think it is.”

“Yes; Prue is beautiful to me, and you are, and Linnet, and mother,—­you see how confused I am.  The girls think so much of it.  One of them hurts her feet with three and a half shoes when she ought to wear larger.  And another laces so tight!  And another thinks so much of being slight and slender that she will not dress warmly enough in the street; she always looks cold and she has a cough, too.  And another said she would rather have tubercles on her lungs than sores on her face!  We had a talk about personal beauty yesterday and one girl said she would rather have it than anything else in the world.  But do you think so much depends upon beauty?”

“How much?”

“Why, ever so much?  Friends, and being loved, and marriage.”

“Did you ever see a homely girl with plenty of friends?  And are wives always beautiful?”

“Why, no.”

“One of the greatest favorites I know is a middle-aged lady,—­a maiden lady,—­not only with a plain face, but with a defect in the upper lip.  She is loved; her company is sought.  She is not rich; she has only an ordinary position—­she is a saleswoman down town.  She is not educated.  Some of your school girl friends are very fond of her.  She is attractive, and you look at her and wonder why; but you hear her speak, and you wonder no longer.  She always has something bright to say.  I do not know of another attraction that she has, beside her willingness to help everybody.”

“And she’s neither young nor pretty.”