“Yes’m.”

Marjorie slowly drew a large envelope from her pocket, and taking the imperial from it gazed at it long.  There was a strange fascination to her in the round face, with its dark eyes and mass of dark hair piled high on the head.  It was a vignette and the head seemed to be rising from folds of black lace, the only ornament was a tiny gold chain on which was placed a small gold cross.

To Marjorie this picture was the embodiment of every good and beautiful thing.  It was somebody that she might be like when she had read all the master’s books, and learned all pretty, gentle ways.  She never saw Helen Rheid, notwithstanding Helen Rheid’s life was one of the moulds in which some of her influences were formed.  Helen Rheid was as much to her as Mrs. Browning was to Miss Prudence.  After another long look she slipped the picture back into the envelope and laid it on the table behind her.

“You are going with Miss Prudence when Linnet is through, I suppose?” asked Mrs. Rheid.

“So mother says.  It seems a long time to wait, but I am studying at home.  Mother cannot spare me to go to school, now, and Mr. Holmes says he would rather hear me recite than not.  So I am learning to sew and do housework as well.”

“You need that as much as schooling,” returned Mrs. Rheid, decidedly.  “I wish one of my boys could have gone to college, there’s money enough to spare, but their father said he had got his learning knocking around the world and they could get theirs the same way.”

“Hollis studies—­he’s studying French now.”

“Did you bring a letter from him?” inquired his mother, eagerly.

“Yes,” said Marjorie, disappointedly, “but I wanted to keep it until the last thing.  I wanted you to have the best last.”

“If I ever do get the best it will be last!” said the subdued, sad voice.

“Then you shall have this first,” returned the bright, childish voice.

But her watchful eyes had detected a stitch dropped in grandmother’s work and that must be attended to first.  The old lady gave up her work willingly and laid her head back to rest while Marjorie knit once around.  And then the short letter was twice read aloud and every sentence discussed.

“If I ever wrote to him I suppose he’d write to me oftener,” said his mother, “but I can’t get my hands into shape for fine sewing or for writing.  I’d rather do a week’s washing than write a letter.”

Marjorie laughed and said she could write letters all day.

“I think Miss Prudence is very kind to you girls,” said Mrs. Rheid.  “Is she a relation?”

“Not a real one,” admitted Marjorie, reluctantly.

“There must be some reason for her taking to you and for your mother letting you go.  Your mother has the real New England grit and she’s proud enough.  Depend upon it, there’s a reason.”

“Miss Prudence likes us, that’s the reason, and we like her.”