“You are as happy as a lark to-day.

“That is what mother told me, only she did not specify the bird.  Morris, I am happier than I was Sunday morning.”

He colored over the name.  She smiled and said, “I’ve been thinking about him to-day, and wanting to tell him how changed I am.”

“What has changed you?” he asked.

Her eyes filled before she could answer him.  In a few brief sentences, sentences in which each word told, she gave him the story of her dark year.

“Poor little Mousie,” he said tenderly.  “And you bore the dark time all by yourself.”

“That’s the way I have my times.  But I do not have my happy times by myself, you see.”

“Did nothing else trouble you?”

“No; oh, no!  Nothing like that.  Father’s death was not a trouble.  I went with him as far as I could—­I almost wanted to go all the way.”

“And there was nothing else to hurt you?” he asked very earnestly.

“Oh, no; why should there be?” she answered, meeting his questioning eyes frankly.  “Do you know of anything else that should have troubled me?”

“No, nothing else.  But girls do have sometimes.  Didn’t your mother help you any?  She helps other people.”

“I could not tell her.  I could not talk about it.  She only thought I was ill, and sent for a physician.  Perhaps I did worry myself into feeling ill.”

“You take life easily,” he said.

“Do I?  I like to take it as God gives it to me; not before he gives it to me.  This slowness—­or faith—­or whatever it is, is one of my inheritances from my blessed father.  Who is it that says, ’I’d see to it pretty sharp that I didn’t hurry Providence.’  That has helped me.”

“I wish it would some one else,” he said grimly.

“I wish it would help every one else.  Everything is helping me now; if I were writing to you I could tell you some of them.”

“I like to hear you talk, Marjorie.”

“Do you?” she asked wonderingly.  “Linnet does, too, and Mrs. Kemlo.  As I shall never write a book, I must learn to talk, and talk myself all out.  Aunt Prue is living her book.”

“Tell me something that has helped you,” he urged.

She looked at the goldenrod in her hand, and raised it to her lips.

“It is coming to me that Christ made everything.  He made those lilies of which he said, ‘Consider the lilies.’  Isn’t it queer that we will not let him clothe us as he did the lilies?  What girl ever had a white dress of the texture and whiteness and richness of the lily?”

“But the lily has but one dress; girls like a new dress for every occasion and a different one.”

“‘Shall he not much more clothe you?’ But we do not let him clothe us.  When one lily fades, he makes another in a fresh dress.  I wish I could live as he wants me to.  Not think about dress or what we eat or drink?  Only do his beautiful work, and not have to worry and be anxious about things.”