During their last talk—­how many talks Marjorie and her father had!—­he made one remark that she had not forgotten, and would never forget:—­

“My life has been of little account, as the world goes; but I have sought to do God’s will, and that is success to a man on his death-bed.”

Would not her life be a success, then?  For what else did she desire but the will of God.

The minister told Marjorie that there was no man in the church whose life had had such a resistless influence as her father’s.

The same hired man was retained; the farm work was done to Mrs. West’s satisfaction.  The farm was her own as long as she lived; and then it was to belong equally to the daughters.  There were no debts.

The gentle, patient life was missed with sore hearts; but there was no outward difference within doors or without.  Marjorie took his seat at table; Mrs. Kemlo sat in his armchair at the fireside; his wife read his Agriculturist; and his daughter read his special devotional books.  His wife admitted to herself that Graham lacked force of character.  She herself was a pusher.  She did not understand his favorite quotation:  “He that believeth shall not make haste.”

Marjorie had her piano—­this piano was a graduating present from Miss Prudence; more books than she could read, from the libraries of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes; her busy work in the household; an occasional visit to the farmhouse on the sea shore, to read to the old people and sing to them, and even to cut and string apples and laugh over her childish abhorrence of the work.  She never opened the door of the chamber they still called “Miss Prudence’s,” without feeling that it held a history.  How different her life would have been but for Miss Prudence.  And Linnet’s.  And Morris’s!  And how many other lives, who knew?  There were, beside, her class in Sunday school; and her visits to Linnet, and exchanging visits with the school-girls,—­not with the girls at Master McCosh’s; she had made no intimate friendships among them.  And then there were letters from Aunt Prue, and childish, affectionate notes from dear little Prue.

Marjorie’s life was not meagre; still she was not “happy enough.”  She wrote to Aunt Prue that she was not “satisfied.”

“That’s a girl’s old story,” Mrs. Holmes said to her husband.  “She must evolve, John.  There’s enough in her for something to come out of her.”

“What do girls want to do?” he asked, looking up from his writing.

“Be satisfied,” laughed his wife.

“Did you go through that delusive period?”

“Was I not a girl?”

“And here’s Prue growing up, to say some day that she isn’t satisfied.”

“No; to say some day that she is.”

“When were you satisfied?”

“At what age?  You will not believe that I was thirty-five, before I was satisfied with my life.  And then I was satisfied, because I was willing for God to have his way with me.  If it were not for that willingness, I shouldn’t be satisfied yet.”