Miss Prudence | Page 8

began to doubt--perhaps there was another Evangelist and this was not the very one in Pilgrim's Progress; somehow, he did not seem just like that one. Might she dare ask him? How would she say it? Before she was aware her thought had become a spoken thought; in the interval of quiet while her mother was counting the young people in the village she was very much astonished to hear her own timid, bold, little voice inquire:
"Is there more than one Evangelist?"
"Why, yes, child," her mother answered absently and Evangelist began to tell her about some of the evangelists he was acquainted with.
"Wonderful men! Wonderful men!" he repeated.
Before another question could form itself on her eager lips her father entered and gave the stranger a cordial welcome.
"We have to thank scarlet fever at the Parsonage for the pleasure of your visit with us, I believe," he said.
"Yes, that seems to be the bright side of the trouble."
"Well, I hope you have brought a blessing with you."
"I hope I have! I prayed the Lord not to bring me here unless he came with me."
"I think the hush of the Spirit's presence has been in our church all winter," said Mrs. West. "I've had no rest day or night pleading for our young people."
The words filled Marjorie with a great awe; she slipped out to unburden herself to Linnet, but Linnet was setting the tea-table in a frolicsome mood and Marjorie's heart could not vent itself upon a frolicsome listener.
From the china closet in the hall Linnet had brought out the china, one of her mother's wedding presents and therefore seldom used, and the glass water pitcher and the small glass fruit saucers.
"Can't I help?" suggested Marjorie looking on with great interest.
"No," refused Linnet, decidedly, "you might break something as you did the night Mrs. Rheid and Hollis were here."
"My fingers were too cold, then."
"Perhaps they are too warm, now," laughed Linnet.
"Then I can tell you about the primary colors; I suppose I won't break them," returned Marjorie with her usual sweet-humor.
Linnet moved the spoon holder nearer the sugar bowl with the air of a house wife, Marjorie stood at the table leaning both elbows upon it.
"If you remember vibgyor, you'll remember the seven primary colors!" she said mysteriously.
"Is it like cutting your nails on Saturday without thinking of a fox's tail and so never have the toothache?" questioned Linnet.
"No; this is earnest. It isn't a joke; it's a lesson," returned Marjorie, severely. "Mr. Holmes said a professor told it to him when he was in college."
"You see it's a joke! I remember vibgyor, but now I don't know the seven primary colors. You are always getting taken in, Goosie! I hope you didn't ask Mr. Woodfern if he is the man in Pilgrim's Progress."
"I know he isn't," said Marjorie, seriously, "there are a good many of them, he said so. I guess Pilgrim's Progress happened a long time ago. I shan't look for Great-heart, any more," she added, with a sigh.
Linnet laughed and scrutinized the white handled knives to see if there were any blemishes on the blades; her mother kept them laid away in old flannel.
"Now, Linnet, you see it isn't a joke," began Marjorie, protestingly; "the word is made of all the first letters of the seven colors,--just see!" counting on her fingers, "violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red! Did you see how it comes right?"
"I didn't see, but I will as soon as I get time. You were not taken in that time, I do believe. Did Mr. Woodfern ask you questions?"
"Not that kind! And I'm glad he didn't. Linnet, I haven't any 'experience' to talk about."
"You are not old enough," said Linnet, wisely.
"Are you?"
"Yes, I have a little bit."
"Shall you tell him about it?" asked Marjorie curiously.
"I don't know."
"I wish I had some; how do you get it?"
"It comes."
"From where?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Then you can't tell me how to get it," pleaded Marjorie.
"No," said Linnet, shaking her sunshiny curls, "perhaps mother can."
"When did you have yours?" Marjorie persisted.
"One day when I was reading about the little girl in the Sandwich Islands. Her father was a missionary there, and she wrote in her journal how she felt and I felt so, too,"
"Did you put it in your journal?"
"Some of it."
"Did you show it to mother?"
"Yes."
"Was she glad?"
"Yes, she kissed me and said her prayers were answered."
Marjorie looked very grave. She wished she could be as old as Linnet and have "experience" to write in her journal and have her mother kiss her and say her prayers were answered.
"Do you have it all the time?" she questioned anxiously as Linnet hurried in from the kitchen with a small platter of sliced ham in her hand.
"Not every day; I do some days."
"I want it every day."
"You call them to