“But David and Jacob and Joseph were different from the others,” returned the mother, gravely, “and in this case, the elder is as good as the younger.”

It almost slipped off Miss Prudence’s tongue, “But she will not take the education Marjorie will,” but she wisely checked herself and replied that both the girls were as precious as precious could be.

“And now don’t you go home to-night, stay all night and I’ll talk to father,” planned Mrs. West, briskly; “as Marjorie would say, Giant Despair will get Diffidence his wife to bed and they will talk the matter over.  She doesn’t read Pilgrim’s Progress as much as she used to, but she calls you Mercy yet.  And you are a mercy to us.”

With the tears rolling down her cheeks the mother stooped over and kissed the lover of her girls.

“Mr. Holmes is coming to see Marjorie to-night, he hasn’t called since her accident, and to talk to father, he likes to argue with him, and it will be pleasanter to have you here.  And Will Rheid is home from a voyage, and he’ll be running in.  It must be lonesome for you over there on the Point.  It used to be for me when I was a girl.”

“But I’m not a girl,” smiled Miss Prudence.

“You’ll pass for one any day.  And you can play and make it lively.  I am not urging you with disinterested motives.”

“I can see through you; and I am anxious to know how Mr. West will receive my proposal.”

“He will see through my eyes in the end, but he always likes to argue a while first.  I want you to taste Linnet’s cream biscuit, too.  She made them on purpose for you.  There’s father, now, coming with African John, and there is Will Rheid coming across lots.  Well, I’m glad Linnet did make the biscuits.”

Miss Prudence arose with a happy face, she did not go back to the girls at once, there was a nook to be quiet in at the foot of the kitchen garden, and she felt as if she must be alone awhile.  Mrs. West, with her heart in a tremor that it had not known since Marjorie was born, tucked away her knitting behind the school-books on the dining-room table, tied on her blue checked apron, and went out to the kitchen to kindle the fire for tea, singing in her mellow voice, “Thus far the Lord hath led me on,” suddenly stopping short as she crammed the stove with shavings to exclaim, “His name was Holmes!  And that’s the school-master’s name.  And that’s why he’s in such a fume when the boys cheat at marbles.  Well, did I ever!”

Linnet ran in to exchange her afternoon dress for a short, dark calico, and to put on her old shoes before she went into the barnyard to milk Bess and Brindle and Beauty.  Will Rheid found her in time to persuade her to let him milk Brindle, for he was really afraid he would get his hand out, and it would never do to let his wife do all the milking when his father bequeathed him a fifth of his acres and two of his hardest-to-be-milked cows.  Linnet laughed, gave him one of her pails, and found an other milking stool for him.