coming and she listened with her listening eyes on his face.

"I had been thinking that God would certainly reveal his will if we
inquired of him, feeling sure of that, for some time, and then I had this
experience."

Marjorie's mother enjoyed "experiences" as well as Marjorie enjoyed
stories. And she liked nothing better than to relate her own; after
hearing an experience she usually began, "Now I will tell you mine."

Marjorie thought she knew every one of her mother's experiences. But it
was Evangelist who was speaking.

The little girl in the brown and blue plaid dress with red stockings and
buttoned boots, bent forward as she sat half concealed behind the stove
and drank in every word with intent, wondering, unquestioning eyes.

Her mother listened, also, with eyes as intent and believing, and years
afterward, recalled this true experience, when she was tempted to take
Marjorie's happiness into her own hands, her own unwise, haste-making
hands.

"My wife had been dead about two years," began Evangelist again, speaking
in a retrospective tone. "I had two little children, the elder not eight
years old, and my sister was my housekeeper. She did not like
housekeeping nor taking care of children. Some women don't. She came to
me one day with a very serious face. 'Brother,' said she, 'you need a
wife, you must have a wife. I do not know how to take care of your
children and you are almost never at home.' She left me before I could
reply, almost before I could think what to reply. I was just home from