Was it Saturday afternoon?  Hollis wore those brown kid gloves, and there was the anchor dangling from his black chain.  She was not too shy to look higher, and meet the smile of his eyes to-day.  Was she going home and expecting a letter from Morris?  There was a letter in her pocket; but it was not from Morris.  Hollis had said he expected to hear from Will; and they had heard from Will.  He would be home before very long, and tell them all the rest.  The train rushed on; a girl was eating peanuts behind her, and a boy was studying his Latin Grammar in front of her.  She was going to Morris’ mother; the rushing train was hurrying her on.  How could she say to Miss Prudence, “Morris is dead.”

“Marjorie.”

“Well,” she answered, rousing herself.

“Are you comfortable?”

The voice was sympathetic; tears started, she could only nod in reply.

There seemed to be nothing to talk about to-day.

She had replied in monosyllables so long that he was discouraged with his own efforts at conversation, and lapsed into silence.  But it was a silence that she felt she might break at any moment.

The train stopped at last; it had seemed as if it would never stop, and then as if it would stop before she could catch her breath and be ready to speak.  If she had not refused that something he had brought her this would not have been so hard.  Had he cared so very much?  Would she have cared very much if he had refused those handkerchiefs she had marked for him?  But Hollis had taken her shawl strap, and was rising.

“You will not have time to get out.”

“Did you think I would leave you anywhere but with your friends?  Have you forgotten me so far as that?”

“I was thinking of your time.”

“Never mind.  One has always time for what he wants to do most.”

“Is that an original proverb?”

“I do not know that it is a quotation.”

She dropped her veil over her face, and walked along the platform at his side.  There were no street cars in the small city, and she had protested against a carriage.

“I like the air against my face.”

That last walk with Morris had been so full of talk; this was taken in absolute silence.  The wind was keen and they walked rapidly.  Prue was watching at the window, loving little Prue, as Marjorie knew she would be.

“There’s a tall man with Marjorie, Aunt Prue.”

Aunt Prue left the piano and followed her to the door.  Mrs. Kemlo was knitting stockings for Morris in her steamer chair.

Marjorie was glad of Prue’s encircling arms.  She hid her face in the child’s hair while Hollis passed her and spoke to Miss Prudence.

Miss Prudence would be strong.  Marjorie did not fear anything for her.  It might be cowardly, but she must run away from his mother.  She laid Will’s letter in Hollis’ hand, and slipping past him hastened up the stairway.  Prue followed her, laughing and pulling at her cloak.