“Father has letters too,” she said to Hollis; “he will give you his news.”

As the sleigh containing Linnet, her father, and Marjorie sped away before them, Captain Rheid said to Hollis:—­

“How shall I ever break it to them?  Morris is dead.”

“Dead!” repeated Hollis.

“He died on the voyage out.  Will gives a long account of it for his mother and Marjorie.  It seems the poor fellow was engaged to her, and has given Will a parting present for her.”

“How did it happen?”

Will has tried to give details; but he is rather confusing.  He is in great trouble.  He wanted to bring him home; but that was impossible.  They came upon a ship in distress, and laid by her a day and a night in foul weather to take them off.  Morris went to them with a part of the crew, and got them all safely aboard the Linnet; but he had received some injury, nobody seemed to know how.  His head was hurt, for he was delirious after the first night.  He sent his love to his mother, and gave Will something for Marjorie, and then did not know anything after that.  Will is heartbroken.  He wants me to break it to Linnet; but I didn’t see how I can.  Your mother will have to do it.  The letter can go to his mother; Miss Prudence will see to that.

“But Marjorie,” said Hollis slowly.

“Yes, poor little Marjorie!” said the old man compassionately.  “It will go hard with her.”

“Linnet or her mother can tell her.”

The captain touched his horse, and they flew past the laughing sleighload.  Linnet waved her handkerchief, Marjorie laughed, and their father took off his hat to them.

“Oh, dear,” groaned the captain.

“Lord, help her; poor little thing,” prayed Hollis, with motionless lips.

He remembered that last letter of hers that he had not answered.  His mother had written to him that she surmised that Marjorie was engaged to Morris; and he had felt it wrong—­“almost interfering,” he had put it to himself—­to push their boy and girl friendship any further.  And, again—­Hollis was cautious in the extreme—­if she did not belong to Morris, she might infer that he was caring with a grown up feeling, which he was not at all sure was true—­he was not sure about himself in anything just then; and, after he became a Christian, he saw all things in a new light, and felt that a “flirtation” was not becoming a disciple of Christ.  He had become a whole-hearted disciple of Christ.  His Aunt Helen and his mother were very eager for him to study for the ministry; but he had told them decidedly that he was not “called.”

“And I am called to serve Christ as a businessman.  Commercial travellers, as a rule, are men of the world; but, as I go about, I want to go about my Father’s business.”

“But he would be so enthusiastic,” lamented Aunt Helen.

“And he has such a nice voice,” bewailed his mother; “and I did hope to see one of my five boys in the pulpit.”