answered; on beginning to study again, he found himself master of his
hard lesson, and, after that, he acquired learning with great readiness."

It was wonderful, Marjorie thought, and beautiful, but she could not say
that; she asked instead: "Did he write about it himself?"

"Yes, he has written all about himself."

"When I was six I didn't know my small letters. Was he so bright because
he was French?"

The gentleman laughed and remarked that the French were a pretty bright
nation.

"Is that all you know about him?"

"Oh, no, indeed; there's a large book of his memoirs in my library. He
visited many of the crowned heads of Europe."

There was another question forming on Marjorie's lips, but at that
instant her mother opened the door. Now she would hear no more about
Stephen Grellet and she could not ask about the Wicket Gate or Mercy or
the children.

Rising in her pretty, respectful manner she gave her mother the spring
rocker and pushed an ottoman behind the stove and seated herself where
she might watch Evangelist's face as he talked.

How the talk drifted in this direction Marjorie did not understand; she
knew it was something about finding the will of the Lord, but a story was