“Yes,” said Marjorie, taking mental note of each expression.

“And Josie Grey—­you see I’ve been studying the difference in the girls since I came home—­”

Had he been studying her?

“Is there so much difference?” she asked a little proudly.

“Yes.  The difference struck me.  It is not city or country that makes the difference, it is the homes and the schools and every educating influence.  Josie Grey has all sorts of exclamations like some old grandmother, and she says ‘I tell you,’ and ‘I declare,’ and she hunches all up when she sits or puts her feet out into the middle of the room.”

“Yes,” said Marjorie, again, intently.

“And Nettie Trevor colors and stammers and talks as if she were afraid of you.  My little ladies see so many people that they become accustomed to forgetting themselves and thinking of others.  They see people to admire and imitate, too.”

“So do I,” said Marjorie, spiritedly.  “I see Miss Prudence and I see Mrs. Proudfit, our new minister’s wife, and I see—­several other people.”

“I suppose I notice these things more than some boys would.  When I left home gentleness was a new language to me; I had never heard it spoken excepting away from home.  I was surprised at first that a master could command with gentleness and that those under authority could obey with gentleness.”

Marjorie listened with awe; this was not like Hollis; her old Hollis was gone, a new, wise Hollis had come instead.  She sighed a little for the old Hollis who was not quite so wise.

“I soon found how much I lacked.  I set myself to reading and studying.  From the first of October all through the winter I attend evening school and I have subscribed to the Mercantile Library and have my choice among thousands of books.  Uncle Jack says I shall be a literary business man.”

A “literary business man” sounded very grand to Marjorie.  Would she stay home and be ignorant and never be or do anything?  At that instant a resolve was born in her heart; the resolve to become a scholar and a lady.  But she did not speak, if possible she became more quiet.  Hollis should not be ashamed of being her friend.

“Mousie!  Why don’t you talk to me?” he asked, at last.

“Which of your cousins do you like best?”

“Helen,” he said unhesitatingly.

“How old is she?” she asked with a sinking at her heart.

“Seventeen. She’s a lady, so gentle and bright, she never rustles or makes a noise, she never says anything to hurt any one’s feelings:  and how she plays and sings.  She never once laughed at me, she helps me in everything; she wanted me to go to evening school and she told me about the Mercantile Library.  She’s a Christian, too.  She teaches in a mission school and goes around among poor people with Aunt Helen.  She paints and draws and can walk six miles a day.  I go everywhere with her, to lectures and concerts and to church and Sunday school.”