Her mother was as blithe and cheery as the day was long.  Linnet was as full of song as a bird, because Will was on the passage home.  In Mrs. Kemlo’s face and voice and words and manner, was perfect peace.  Aunt Prue’s letters were overflowing with joy in her husband and child, and joy in God.  Only Marjorie was left outside.  Mrs. Rheid had become zealous in good works.  She read extracts from Hollis’ letters to her, where he wrote of his enjoyment in church work, his Bible class, the Young Men’s Christian Association, the prayer-meeting.  But Marjorie had no heart for work.  She had attempted to resign as teacher in Sunday school; but the superintendent and her class of bright little girls persuaded her to remain.  She had sighed and yielded.  How could she help them to be what she was not herself?  No one understood and no one helped her.  For the first time in her life she was tempted to be cross.  She was weary at night with the effort all day to keep in good humor.

And she was a member of the church?  Had she a right to go to the communion?  Was she not living a lie?  She stayed at home the Sabbath of the summer communion, and spent the morning in tears in her own chamber.

Her mother prayed for her, but she did not question her.

“Marjorie, dear,” Morris’ mother said, “can you not feel that God loves you?”

“I know he does,” she replied, bursting into tears; “but I don’t love him.”

In August of this summer Captain Will was loading in Portland for Havana.  She was ready for sea, but the wind was ahead.  After two days of persistent head wind Saturday night came, and it was ahead still.  Captain Will rushed ashore and hurried out to Linnet.  He would have one Sunday more at home.

Annie was spending a week in Middlefield, and Linnet was alone.  She had decided not to go home, but to send for Marjorie; and was standing at the gate watching for some one to pass, by whom she might send her message, when Will himself appeared, having walked from the train.

Linnet shouted; he caught her in his arms and ran around the house with her, depositing her at last in the middle of the grass plat in front of the house.

“One more Sunday with you, sweetheart!  Have you been praying for a head wind?”

“Suppose I should pray for it to be ahead as long as we live!”

“Poor little girl!  It’s hard for you to be a sailor’s wife, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t hard to be your wife.  It would be hard not to be,” said demonstrative Linnet.

“You are going with me next voyage, you have promised.”

“Your father has not said I might.”

“He won’t grumble; the Linnet is making money for him.”

“You haven’t had any supper, Will!  And I am forgetting it.”

“Have you?”

“I didn’t feel like eating, but I did eat a bowl of bread and milk.”

“Do you intend to feed me on that?”