Part 41 (1/2)
”It's just as papa said,” she remarked, coming to the rug, her survey being ended. The childishness and sweet gravity of her tone were striking.
Marjorie removed the white hood that she had travelled from California in, and, brus.h.i.+ng back the curls that shone in the light like threads of gold, kissed her forehead and cheeks and rosy lips.
”I am your Cousin Marjorie, and you are my little cousin.”
”I like you, Cousin Marjorie,” the child said.
”Of course you do, and I love you. Are you Prue, or Jeroma?”
”I'm Prue,” she replied with dignity. ”Don't you _ever_ call me Jeroma again, ever; papa said so.”
Marjorie laughed and kissed her again.
”I never, never will,” she promised.
”Aunt Prue says 'Prue' every time.”
Marjorie unb.u.t.toned the gray cloak and drew off the gray gloves; Prue threw off the cloak and then lifted her foot for the rubber to be pulled off.
”I had no rubbers; Aunt Prue bought these in New York.”
”Aunt Prue is very kind,” said Marjorie, as the second little foot was lifted.
”Does she buy you things, too?” asked Prue.
”Yes, ever and ever so many things.”
”Does she buy _everybody_ things?” questioned Prue, curiously.
”Yes,” laughed Marjorie; ”she's everybody's aunt.”
”No, I don't buy everybody things. I buy things for you and Marjorie because you are both my little girls.”
Turning suddenly Marjorie put both arms about Miss Prudence's neck: ”I've missed you, dreadfully, Miss Prudence; I almost cried to-night.”
”So that is the story I find in your eyes. But you haven't asked me the news.”
”You haven't seen mother, or Linnet, or Morris,--they keep my news for me.” But she flushed as she spoke, reproaching herself for not being quite sincere.
Prue stood on the hearth rug, looking up at the portrait of the lady over the mantel.
”Don't pretend that you don't want to hear that Nannie Rheid has put herself through,” began Miss Prudence in a lively voice, ”crammed to the last degree, and has been graduated a year in advance of time that she may be married this month. Her father was inexorable, she must be graduated first, and she has done it at seventeen, so he has had to redeem his promise and allow her to be married. Her 'composition'--that is the old-fas.h.i.+oned name--was published in one of the literary weeklies, and they all congratulate themselves and each other over her success. But her eyes are big, and she looks as delicate as a wax lily; she is all nerves, and she laughs and talks as though she could not stop herself.
What do you think of her as a school girl triumph?”
”It isn't tempting. I like myself better. I want to be _slow_. Miss Prudence, I don't want to hurry anything.”
”I approve of you, Marjorie. Now what is this little girl thinking about?”
”Is that your mamma up there?”