found herself alone, with something of the same feeling, that once two or
three years ago when she was away from home and homesick she used to
kneel to say her prayers in the corner of the chamber where her valise
was; there was home about the valise and there was protection and safety
and a sort of helpfulness about this desk where her friend Hollis Rheid
had sat ever since she had come to school. This was her first winter at
school, her mother had taught her at home, but in family council this
winter it had been decided that Marjorie was "big" enough to go to
school.

The half mile home seemed a long way to walk alone, and the huge
Newfoundland at the farmhouse down the hill was not always chained; he
had sprung out at them this morning and the girls had huddled together
while Hollis and Frank Grey had driven him inside his own yard. Hollis
had thrown her an intelligent glance as he filed out with the boys, and
had telegraphed something back to her as he paused for one instant at the
door. Not quite understanding the telegraphic signal, she was waiting for
him, or for something. His lips had looked like: "Wait till I come." If
the people at home were not anxious about her she would have been willing
to wait until midnight; it would never occur to her that Hollis might
forget her.

Her cheeks flushed as she waited, and her eyes filled with tears; it was
a soft, warm, round face, with coaxing, kissable lips, a smooth, low brow
and the gentlest of hazel eyes: not a pretty face, excepting in its
lovely childishness and its hints of womanly graces; some of the girls
said she was homely. Marjorie thought herself that she was very homely;
but she had comforted herself with, "God made my face, and he likes it
this way." Some one says that God made the other features, but permits us
to make the mouth. Marjorie's sweetness certainly made her mouth. But