a visit and see how I like
it."

The child stood still, waiting for an outburst of joy at her
announcement; but Marjorie only caught her and shook her and tumbled her
curls without saying one word.

"Aren't you _glad_, Marjorie?"

"I'm glad I'm home with you, and I'm glad you are to give me my dinner."

"It's a very nice dinner," answered Prue, gravely; "roast beef and
potatoes and tomatoes and pickled peaches and apple pie, unless you want
lemon pie instead. I took lemon pie. Which will you have?"

"Lemon," said Marjorie.

"But you don't look glad about anything. Didn't you know your lessons
to-day?"

"Oh, yes."

"I'll put your things on the hat-rack and you can get warm while I tell
Deborah to put your dinner on the table. I think you are cold and that is
why you can't be glad. I don't like to be cold."

"I'm not cold now," laughed Marjorie.

"Now you feel better! And I'm to sit up until you go to bed, and you are
to sleep with me; and _won't_ it be splendid for me to go to school and
take my lunch, too? And I can have jelly on my bread and an orange just
as you do."

Marjorie was awake long before Deborah entered the chamber to kindle the
fire, trying to form some excuse to keep Prue from going to school
with her. How could she take her to-day of all days; for the girls to
look at her, and whisper to each other, and ask her questions, and to
study critically her dress, and to touch her hair, and pity her and kiss
her! And she would be sure to open the round gold locket she wore upon a
tiny gold chain about her neck and tell them it was "my papa who died in
California."

She was very proud of showing "my papa."

What excuse could she make to the child? It was not storming, and she did
not have a cold, and her heart did seem so set on it. The last thing
after she came upstairs last night she had opened the inside blinds to
look out to see if it were snowing. And she had charged Deborah to have
the fire kindled early so that she would not be late at breakfast.

She must go herself. She could concoct no reason for remaining at home
herself; her throat had been a trifle sore last night, but not even the
memory of it could bring it back this morning.

Deborah had a cough, if she should be taken ill--but there was the fire
crackling in the airtight in confirmation of Deborah's ability to be
about the house; or if Prue--but the child was never ill. Her cheeks were
burning last night, but that was with the