“And then taken very ill, so ill that he was delirious.  Will did everything for his comfort that he could do; he was with him night and day; he lived nine days.  But, before he became delirious, he sent his love to his mother, and he gave Will something to give to you.”

“Yes.  I know,” said Marjorie.  “I don’t deserve it.  I refused it when he wanted to give it to me.  I wasn’t kind to him.”

“Yes, you were,” said Linnet, “you don’t know what you are saying.  You were always kind to him, and he loved you.”

“Yes; but I might have been kinder,” she said.  “Must I tell his mother?”

“No; Miss Prudence will do that,” answered Hollis.  “I have Will’s letter for you to take to her.”

“Where is he?  Where is Morris?”

“Buried in England.  Will could not bring him home,” said Hollis.

“His mother!  What will she do?” moaned Marjorie.

“Marjorie, you talk as if there was no one to comfort her,” rebuked Mrs. Rheid.

“You have all your boys, Mrs. Rheid, and she had only Morris,” said Marjorie.

“Yes; that is true; and I cannot spare one of them.  Do cry, child.  Don’t sit there with your eyes so wide open and big.”

Marjorie closed her eyes and leaned back against Linnet.  Morris had gone to God.

It was hours before the tears came.  She sobbed herself to sleep towards morning.  She did not deserve it; but she would keep the thing he had sent to her.  Another beautiful life was ended; who would do his work on the earth.  Would Hollis?  Could she do a part of it?  She would love his mother.  Oh, how thankful she was that he had known that rest had begun to come to his mother, that he had known that she was safe with Miss Prudence.

It was like Marjorie, even in her first great sorrow, to fall asleep thanking God.

XXIII.

GOD’S LOVE.

“As many as I love I rebuke and chasten.”

Marjorie opened her “English Literature.”  She must recite to-morrow.  She had forgotten whom she had studied about Saturday afternoon.

Again Hollis was beside her in the train.  Her shawl strap was at her feet; her ticket was tucked into her glove; she opened at the same place in “English Literature.”  Now she remembered “Donald Grant Mitchell.”  His “Dream Life” was one of Morris’ favorites.  They had read it together one summer under the apple-tree.  He had coaxed her to read aloud, saying that her voice suited it.  She closed the book; she could not study; how strange it would be to go among the girls and hear them laugh and talk; would any of them ask her if she were in trouble?  They would remember her sailor boy.