Her sense of the fitness of things was sometimes outraged; one of the reasons why she longed to grow up was that she might have things of her own; things bought for her and made for her as they always were for Linnet.  But Linnet was pretty and good and was going away to school!

The fair vision was clothed in white, a soft white, that fell in folds and had no kinship with starch.  Marjorie had never seen this kind of white dress before; it was a part of Miss Prudence’s loveliness.  The face was oval and delicate, with little color in the lips and less in the cheeks, smooth black hair was brushed away from the thoughtful forehead and underneath the heavily pencilled black brows large, believing, gray eyes looked unquestioningly out upon the world.  Unlike Marjorie, Miss Prudence’s questions had been answered.  She would have told Marjorie that it was because she had asked her questions of One who knew how to answer.  She was swinging in her hammock on the back porch; this back porch looked over towards the sea, a grass plat touched the edge of the porch and then came the garden; it was a kitchen garden, and stretched down to the flat rocks, and beyond the flat rocks were the sand and the sea.

Marjorie had walked two miles and a half this hot afternoon to spend two or three hours with her friend, Miss Prudence.  Miss Prudence was boarding at Marjorie’s grandfather’s; this was the second summer that she had been at this farmhouse by the sea.  She was the lady of whom Marjorie had caught a glimpse so long ago in church, and called her Mercy.  Throwing aside her hat, Marjorie dropped down on the floor of the porch, so near the gently swaying hammock that she might touch the soft, white drapery, and in a position to watch Miss Prudence’s face.

“I don’t see the use of learning somethings,” Marjorie began; that is, if she could be said to begin anything with Miss Prudence, the beginning of all her questions had been so long ago.  So long ago to Marjorie; long ago to Miss Prudence was before Marjorie was born.

There were no books or papers in the hammock.  Miss Prudence had settled herself comfortably, so comfortably that she was not conscious of inhabiting her body when Marjorie had unlatched the gate.

“Which one of the things, for instance?”

In the interested voice there was not one trace of the delicious reverie she had been lost in.

“Punctuation,” said Marjorie, promptly; “and Mr. Holmes says we must be thorough in it.  I can’t see the use of anything beside periods, and, of course, a comma once in a while.”

A gleam of fun flashed into the gray eyes.  Miss Prudence was a born pedagogue.

“I’ll show you something I learned when I was a little girl; and, after this, if you don’t confess that punctuation has its work in the world, I have nothing more to say about it.”

Marjorie had been fanning herself with her broad brim, she let it fall in her eagerness and her eyes were two convincing arguments against the truth of her own theory, for they were two emphasized exclamation points; sometimes when she was very eager she doubled herself up and made an interrogation point of herself.