best.  I called last week on an Irish washerwoman and I was struck with the beauty of her girls—­four of them, the eldest seventeen, the youngest six.  The eldest had black eyes and black curls; the second soft brown eyes and soft brown curls to match; the third curls of gold, as pretty as Prue’s, and black eyes; the youngest blue eyes and yellow curls.  I never saw such a variety of beauty in one family.  The mother was at the washtub, the oldest daughter was ironing, the second getting supper of potatoes and indian meal bread, the third beauty was brushing the youngest beauty’s hair.  As I stood and looked at them I thought, how many girls in this city would be vain if they owned their eyes and hair, and how God had thrown the beauty down among them who had no thought about it.  He gives beauty to those who hate him and use it to dishonor him, just as he gives money to those who spend it in sinning.  I almost think, that he holds cheaply those two things the world prizes so highly; money and beauty.”

After a moment Marjorie said:  “I do not mean to live for the world.”

“And you do not sigh for beauty?” smiled Miss Prudence.

“No, not really.  But I do want to be something beside short and stout, with my hair in a knot.”

The fun in her eyes did not conceal the vexation.

“Miss Prudence, it’s hard to care only for the things God cares about,” she said, earnestly.

“Yes, very hard.”

“I think you care only for such things.  You are not worldly one single bit.”

“I do not want to be—­one single bit.”

“I know you do give up things.  But you have so much; you have the best things.  I don’t want things you have given up.  I think God cares for the things you care for.”

“I hope he does,” said Miss Prudence, gently.  “Marjorie, if he has given you a plain face give it back to him to glorify himself with; if a beautiful face, give that back to him to glorify himself with.  You are not your own; your face is not yours; it is bought with a price.”

Marjorie’s face was radiant just then.  The love, the surprise, the joy, made it beautiful.

Miss Prudence could not forbear, she drew the beautiful face down to kiss it.

“People will always call you plain, dear, but keep your soul in your face, and no matter.”

“Can I help Deborah now?  Or isn’t there something for me to do upstairs?  I can study and practice this afternoon.”

“I don’t believe you will.  Look out in the path.”

Marjorie looked, then with a shout that was almost like Linnet’s she dropped her work, and sprang towards the door.

For there stood Linnet herself, in the travelling dress Marjorie had seen her last in; not older or graver, but with her eyes shining like stars, ready to jump into Marjorie’s arms.

How Miss Prudence enjoyed the girls’ chatter.  Marjorie wheeled a chair to the grate for Linnet, and then, having taken her wraps, kneeled down on the rug beside her and leaned both elbows on the arm of her chair.