Part 2 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+ning eyes, she stood one moment upon the red mat outside the parlor door, and then, with sudden courage, turned the k.n.o.b 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: ma.s.sive head and shoulders, white beard and moustache, ruddy cheeks, and, as the head turned quickly at her entrance, she beheld, beneath the s.h.a.ggy, white brows, twinkling blue eyes.
”Ah,” he exclaimed, in an abrupt voice, ”you are the little girl they were expecting home from school.”
”Yes, sir.”
He extended a plump, white hand and, not at all shyly, Marjorie laid her hand in it.
”Isn't it late to come from school? Did you play on the way home?”
”No sir; I'm too big for that”
”Doesn't school dismiss earlier?”
”Yes, sir,” flus.h.i.+ng and dropping her eyes, ”but I was kept in.”
”Kept in,” he repeated, smoothing the little hand. ”I'm sure it was not for bad behavior and you look bright enough to learn your lessons.”
”I didn't know my lessons,” she faltered.
”Then you should have done as Stephen Grellet did,” he returned, releasing her hand.
”How did he do?” she asked.
n.o.body loved stories better than Marjorie.
Pus.h.i.+ng her mother's spring rocker nearer the fire, she sat down, arranged the skirt of her dress, and, prepared herself, not to ”entertain” him, but to listen.
”Did you never read about him?”
”I never even heard of him.”
”Then I'll tell you something about him. His father was an intimate friend and counsellor of Louis XVI. Stephen was a French boy. Do you know who Louis XVI was?”