XXII.

TIDINGS.

“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

Sunday in the twilight Linnet and Marjorie were alone in Linnet’s little kitchen.  Linnet was bending over the stove stirring the chocolate, and Marjorie was setting the table for two.

“Linnet!” she exclaimed, “it’s like playing house.”

“I feel very much in earnest.”

“So do I. That chocolate makes me feel so.  Have you had time to watch the light over the fields?  Or is it too poor a sight after gazing at the sunset on the ocean?”

“Marjorie!” she said, turning around to face her, and leaving the spoon idle in the steaming pot, “do you know, I think there’s something the matter?”

“Something the matter?  Where?”

“I don’t know where.  I was wondering this afternoon if people always had a presentiment when trouble was coming.”

“Did you ever have any trouble?” asked Marjorie seriously.

“Not real, dreadful trouble.  But when I hear of things happening suddenly, I wonder if it is so sudden, really; or if they are not prepared in some way for the very thing, or for something.”

“We always know that our friends may die—­that is trouble.  I feel as if it would kill me for any one I love to die.”

“Will is safe and well,” said Linnet, “and father and mother.”

“And Morris—­I shall find a letter for me at home, I expect.  I suppose his mother had hers last night.  How she lives in him!  She loves him more than any of us.  But what kind of a feeling have you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are tired and want to go to sleep,” said Marjorie, practically.  “I’ll sing you to sleep after supper.  Or read to you!  We have ’Stepping Heavenward’ to read.  That will make you forget all your nonsense.”

“Hollis’ face isn’t nonsense.”

“He hasn’t talked to me since last night.  I didn’t see him in church.”

“I did.  And that is what I mean.  I should think his trouble was about Will, if I hadn’t the letter.  And Father Rheid!  Do you see how fidgety he is?  He has been over here four times to-day.”

“He is always stern.”

“No; he isn’t.  Not like this.  And Mother Rheid looked so—­too.”

“How?” laughed Marjorie.  “O, you funny Linnet.”

“I wish I could laugh at it.  But I heard something, too.  Mother Rheid was talking to mother after church this afternoon, and I heard her say, ‘distressing.’  Father Rheid hurried me into the sleigh, and mother put her veil down; and I was too frightened to ask questions.”

“She meant that she had a distressing cold,” said Marjorie lightly.  “‘Distressing’ is one of her pet words.  She is distressed over the coldness of the church, and she is distressed when all her eggs do not hatch.  I wouldn’t be distressed about that, Linnet.  And mother put her veil down because the wind was blowing I put mine down, too.”