Marjorie was tempted to linger and linger; in winter this room was closed and seemed always bare and cold when she peeped into it; there was no temptation to stay one moment; and now she had to tear herself away.  It must be Miss Prudence’s spirit that brooded over it and gave it sweetness and sunshine.  This was the way Marjorie put the thought to herself.  The child was very poetical when she lived alone with herself.  Miss Prudence’s wicker work-basket with its dainty lining of rose-tinted silk, its shining scissors and gold thimble, with its spools and sea-green silk needlebook was a whole poem to the child; she thought the possession of one could make any kind of sewing, even darning stockings, very delightful work.  “Stitch, stitch, stitch,” would not seem dreadful, at all.

How mysterious and charming it was to board by the seashore with somebody’s grandfather!  And then, in winter, to go back to some bewildering sort of a fairyland!  To some kind of a world where people did not talk all the time about “getting along” and “saving” and “doing without” and “making both ends meet.”  How Marjorie’s soul rebelled against the constant repetition of those expressions!  How she thought she would never let her little girls know what one of them meant!  If she and her little girls had to be saving and do without, how brave they would be about it, and laugh over it, and never ding it into anybody’s ears!  And she would never constantly be asking what things cost!  Miss Prudence never asked such questions.  But she would like to know if that gold pen cost so very much, and that glass inkstand shaped like a pyramid, and all that cream note-paper with maple tassels and autumn leaves and butterflies and ever so many cunning things painted in its left corners.  And there was a pile of foolscap on the table, and some long, yellow envelopes, and some old books and some new books and an ivory paper-cutter; all something apart from the commonplace world she inhabited.  Not apart from the world her thoughts and desires revelled in; not her hopes, for she had not gotten so far as to hope to live in a magical world like Miss Prudence.  And yet when Miss Prudence did not wear white she was robed in deep mourning; there was sorrow in Miss Prudence’s magical world.

It was some few moments before the roving eyes could settle themselves upon the paper and pencil she had been sent for; she would have liked to choose a sheet of the thick cream-paper with the autumn leaves painted on it, but that was not for study, and Miss Prudence certainly intended study, although there was fun in her eyes.  She selected carefully a sheet of foolscap and from among the pen oils a nicely sharpened Faber number three.  With the breath of the room about her, and the beauty and restfulness of it making a glory in her eyes, she ran down to the broad, airy hall.