ightly parted, her cheeks were rosy; if this were the "beginning of
things" it was a very sweet and peaceful beginning.

Entering the parlor with a soft tread Miss Prudence divested herself of
hat, gloves, duster and umbrella, and, taking a large palm leaf fan from
the table, seated herself near the sleeper, gently waving the fan to and
fro as a fly lighted on Marjorie's hands or face. On the window seat were
placed a goblet half filled with lemonade, a small Bible, a book that had
the outward appearance of being a Sunday-school library book, and a copy
in blue and gold of the poems of Mrs. Hemans. Miss Prudence remembered
her own time of loving Mrs. Hemans and had given this copy to Marjorie;
later, she had laid her aside for Longfellow, as Marjorie would do by and
by, and, in his turn, she had given up Longfellow for Tennyson and Mrs.
Browning, as, perhaps, Marjorie would never do. She had brought Jean
Ingelow with her this morning to try "Brothers and a Sermon" and the
"Songs of Seven" with Marjorie. Marjorie was a natural elocutionist; Miss
Prudence was afraid of spoiling her by unwise criticism. The child must
thoroughly appreciate a poem, forget herself, and then her rendering
would be more than Miss Prudence with all her training could perfectly
imitate.

"Don't teach her too much; she'll want to be an actress," remonstrated
Marjorie's father after listening to Marjorie's reading one day.

Miss Prudence laughed and Marjorie looked perplexed.

"Marjorie is to comfort with her reading as some do by singing," she
replied. "Wait till you are old and she reads the Bible to you!"

"She reads to me now," he said. "She read 'The Children of the Lord's
Supper' to me last night."

Miss Prudence moved the fan backward and forward and studied the
sleeping, innocent face. I had almost written "sweet" again; I can
scarcely think of her face, as it was then, without writing sweet. It
would be long, Miss Prudence mused, before lines and creases intruded
here and there in that smooth forehead, and in the tinted cheeks that
dimpled at the least provocation; but life would bring them in time, and
they would add beauty if there were no bitterness nor hardness in them.
If the Holy Spirit dwelt in the temple of the body were not the lines
upon the face his handwriting? She knew more than one old face that
was growing more attractive with each year of life.

The door was pushed open and Mrs. West's broad shoulders and motherly
f