“Why, Marjie!” was her mother’s exclamation, but it brought the color to Marjorie’s face and suffused her eyes.

“We are to have company for tea,” announced the figure kneeling on the oilcloth as she banged the stove door.  “A stranger; the evangelist Mr. Horton told us about Sunday.”

“I know,” said Marjorie.  “I’ve read about him in Pilgrim’s Progress; he showed Christian the way to the Wicket Gate.”

Linnet jumped to her feet and shook a chip from her apron.  “O, Goosie!  Don’t you know any better?”

Fourteen-year-old Linnet always knew better.

“Where is he?” questioned Marjorie.

“In the parlor.  Go and entertain him.  Mother and I must get him a good supper:  cold chicken, canned raspberries, currant jelly, ham, hot biscuit, plain cake and fruit cake and—­butter and—­tea.”

“I don’t know how,” hesitated Marjorie.

“Answer his questions, that’s all,” explained Linnet promptly.  “I’ve told him all I know and now it’s your turn.”

“I don’t like to answer questions,” said Marjorie, still doubtfully.

“Oh, only your age and what you study and—­if—­you are a Christian.”

“And he tells you how if you don’t know how,” said Marjorie, eagerly; “that’s what he’s for.”

“Yes,” replied her mother, approvingly, “run in and let him talk to you.”

Very shyly glad of the opportunity, and yet dreading it inexpressibly, Marjorie hung her school clothing away and laid her satchel on the shelf in the hall closet, and then stood wavering in the closet, wondering if she dared go in to see Evangelist.  He had spoken very kindly to Christian.  She longed, oh, how she longed! to find the Wicket Gate, but would she dare ask any questions?  Last Sabbath in church she had seen a sweet, beautiful face that she persuaded herself must be Mercy, and now to have Evangelist come to her very door!

What was there to know any better about?  She did not care if Linnet had laughed.  Linnet never cared to read Pilgrim’s Progress.

It is on record that the first book a child reads intensely is the book that will influence all the life.

At ten Marjorie had read Pilgrim’s Progress intensely.  Timidly, with shining eyes, she stood one moment upon the red mat outside the parlor door, and then, with sudden courage, turned the knob and entered.  At a glance she felt that there was no need of courage; Evangelist was seated comfortably in the horse-hair rocker with his feet to the fire resting on the camp stool; he did not look like Evangelist at all, she thought, disappointedly; he reminded her altogether more of a picture of Santa Claus:  massive head and shoulders, white beard and moustache, ruddy cheeks, and, as the head turned quickly at her entrance, she beheld, beneath the shaggy, white brows, twinkling blue eyes.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, in an abrupt voice, “you are the little girl they were expecting home from school.”