“Oh, Africa, just now. I am not interested in my life at all.” “Marion, dear, is Bensalem a failure?” “Yes, as far as I am concerned. Not for you, dear old boy; it is splendid for you, and for Bensalem. Even Judith listens in church.” “I know she does. I write my sermons for her.” “For a girl? How do you expect to reach other people, then?” she inquired, surprised. “The inspiration came to me, that Sunday she told me she was sorry for not listening, to begin all over again—to look at life from a fresh standpoint, from the standpoint of youth, ardent, hungry, sensation-loving youth—” “Sensation—” “Not in its usual acceptation; truth cannot but give you a sensation; I knew it would not hurt the old people and the middle-aged to begin again; to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child, and I have attempted to teach the children in the Kingdom of Heaven; to talk simply about the grand old truths; to keep that girl before me as I thought out my sermons—a thoughtful girl who has had some experience in life, and when a thought or the expression of it was over her head, I struck it out.” “Now I know your secret. ‘Simplicity and strength’ are your characteristics, David Prince, our literary blacksmith, who wrote Bensalem up for the Dunellen _News_, was pleased to say. Shall you keep this up?” “Until I find a better way,” he said, contentedly. “Everybody listens.” “Even Miss Rody,” he said, smiling at the memory of Miss Rody’s face. “And all the other old folks. Old folks and children. What about the young men and maidens?” “Aren’t ‘simplicity and strength’ good enough for them?” he inquired, seriously. “It’s good enough for me.” “Not quite,” he answered. “Why?” “You listen, of course.” “But I do not grow fast enough? Roger, I’ve stopped growing. I knew something was the matter with me, and that’s it.” “A pretty serious _it_.” “I know that better than you can tell me. I wish Judith Grey Mackenzie—how Aunt Rody brings that out—would give _me_ an inspiration.” “Bring her here for a week and I’ll promise that she will.” “Aunt Affy could not spare her. Her yellow head is the sunshine of that old house. But I’ll have her some day. I wish I _owned_ her.” “I wish you did. I would buy her myself if I had money enough.” “I wonder who _does_ own her,” said Marion; “I forgot that she does not belong to anybody.” “She does belong to somebody. Her mother gave her to Aunt Affy.” Perhaps she belonged somewhat to her “Cousin Don.” Roger never talked about Don. He never read aloud to her the foreign letters she saw so often on the study table. A sigh came of itself before she could stifle it; the idle fingers opened the magazine; Roger’s pen began to race across the paper. Voices on the piazza brought Marion to her feet; Judith’s voice was in the hall. “O, Miss Marion, we came to tell you—” began Judith. “And to ask you how—” continued Jean. “To make an Outing Ten,” finished Judith.