How surprised she would have been had she known that Helen’s eyes had filled with tears when Hollis told her how his little friend had risen all alone in that full church!  Helen thought she could never be like Marjorie.

“I wish you had a picture of how you used to look for me to show Helen.”

Not how she looked to-day!  Her lips quivered and she kept her eyes on her dusty shoes.

“I suppose you want the pitcher immediately.”

Two years ago Hollis would have said “right away.”

After that Marjorie never forgot to say “immediately.”

“Yes, I would,” she said, slowly.  “I’ve hidden the pieces away and nobody knows it is broken.”

“That isn’t like you,” Hollis returned, disappointedly.

“Oh, I didn’t do it to deceive; I couldn’t.  I didn’t want her to be sorry about it until I could see what I could do to replace it”

“That sounds better.”

Marjorie felt very much as if he had been finding fault with her.

“Will you have to pay for it?”

“Not if mother gives it to me, but perhaps I shall exact some return from you.”

She met his grave eyes fully before she spoke.  “Well, I’ll give you all I can earn.  I have only seventy-three cents; father gives me one tenth of the eggs for hunting them and feeding the chickens, and I take them to the store.  That’s the only way I can earn money,” she said in her sweet half-abashed voice.

A picture of Helen taking eggs to “the store” flashed upon Hollis’ vision; he smiled and looked down upon his little companion with benignant eyes.

“I could give you all I have and send you the rest.  Couldn’t I?” she asked.

“Yes, that would do.  But you must let me set my own price,” he returned in a business like tone.

“Oh I will.  I’d do anything to get Miss Prudence a pitcher,” she said eagerly.

The faded muslin brushed against him; and how odd and old-fashioned her hat was!  He would not have cared to go on a picnic with Marjorie in this attire; suppose he had taken her into the crowd of girls among which his cousin Helen was so noticeable last week, how they would have looked at her!  They would think he had found her at some mission school.  Was her father so poor, or was this old dress and broad hat her mother’s taste?  Anyway, there was a guileless and bright face underneath the flapping hat and her voice was as sweet as Helen’s even it there was such an old-fashioned tone about it.  One word seemed to sum up her dress and herself—­old-fashioned.  She talked like some little old grandmother.  She was more than quaint—­she was antiquated.  That is, she was antiquated beside Helen.  But she did not seem out of place here in the country; he was thinking of her on a city pavement, in a city parlor, or among a group of fluttering, prettily dressed city girls, with their modulated voices, animated gestures and laughing, bright replies.  There was light and fire about them and Marjorie was such a demure little mouse.