the
children, there were tears in your eyes, but the others said all they
liked was my voice."

"Yes," said Marjorie, "but if somebody had stumbled over every line I
shouldn't have felt it so. I know the good there is in studying
elocution. When Mr. Woodfern was here and read 'O, Absalom, my son! My
son, Absalom!' everybody had tears in their eyes, and I had never seen
tears about it before. And now I know the good of punctuation. I guess
punctuation helps elocution, too."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Miss Prudence, smiling at Marjorie's air of
having discovered something. "Now, I'll give you something to do while I
close my eyes and think awhile."

"Am I interrupting you?" inquired Marjorie in consternation. "I didn't
know how I could any more than I can interrupt--"

"God" was in her thought, but she did not give it utterance.

"I shall not allow you," returned Miss Prudence, quietly. "You will work
awhile, and I will think and when I open my eyes you may talk to me about
anything you please. You are a great rest to me, child."

"Thank you," said the child, simply.

"You may take the paper and change the number of people, or relationship,
or professions again. I know it may be done."

"I don't see how."

"Then it will give you really something to do."

Seating herself again on the yellow floor of the porch, within range of
Miss Prudence's vision, but not near enough to disturb her, Marjorie bit
the unsharpened end of her pencil and looked long at the puzzling
sentences on the foolscap. With the attitude of attentiveness she was not
always attentive; Mr. Holmes told her that she lacked concentration and
that she could not succeed without it. Marjorie was very anxious to
"succeed." She scribbled awhile, making a comma and a dash, a
parenthesis, an interrogation point, an asterisk and a line of asterisks!
But the sense was not changed; there was nobody new in the stage-coach
and nobody did anything new. Then she rewrote it again, giving the little
child to the foreigner and lady; she wanted the child to have a father
and mother, even if the father were a foreigner and did not speak
English; she called the foreigner Mr. Angelo, and imagined him to be a
brother of the celebrated Michael Angelo; making a dive into the shallow
depths of her knowledge of Italian nomenclature she selected a name for
the child, a little girl, of course--Corrinne would do, or it might be a
boy and named for his uncle Michael. In w