Jack was two years older than his sister. He was sixteen, and preparing for college, and his father thought best that he should not change schools. So he had to make an early start every day, and very rarely came back until dinner-time, and then had to study hard all the evening. Now and then, when he did come home early on a rainy day, Marjorie and he would have great fun, like the old times; so at last she came to wish for bad weather with as much eagerness as she had used to look for sunshine. Since her mother's death her father had seemed very much preoccupied and indifferent to what she and Jack did. And, as time went on, he was more and more away from home. He changed the dinner hour from six until seven, and was often late at that. Then right afterward he would generally go out, and not come back until after Jack and Marjorie were in bed. Marjorie especially missed her father's presence and companionship; and one "dull, sunshiny afternoon," as Marjorie called it, in default of any other sympathizer, she confided her grief to Hetty, who seemed in a pleasanter mood than usual. "I wonder what it is that takes so much of father's time?" she said. "Oh, it's coortin' he is, av coorse, ye may belave," replied Hetty. "Oh no, you don't mean--that, do you?" exclaimed Marjorie. "Sure 'n' why not?" said Hetty, with a smirk. "Widowers generally does. But I can tell you that I for wan will not shtay wan minute, no, nor wan sicond, av he brings a new mistress into this house!" III. Marjorie was very much worried at what Hetty had said. It hardly seemed possible to her that the girl could be right, and that her father could be contemplating such a step as she suggested. Yet there was no doubt that he seemed very much changed since his wife's death, and Marjorie sought in vain for any satisfactory explanation of his frequent absences from home. She lay awake a long time that night--thinking. And the less able she was to find a reason that would account for the difference in her father's manner and habits, the more readily she brought herself to believe that Hetty was right in her supposition. "It's my fault, it's my fault," she sobbed to herself, as she buried her head in the pillow. "I haven't tried to take dear mother's place, and to look after the house, and to do the things she used to do for father's comfort. I've just acted like a silly, helpless little girl, and shirked my responsibilities, and left everything to Hetty, and I think she's--she's just hateful." Then, when Marjorie realized how short a time had passed since the fire, and the funeral, and the moving, it seemed to her that perhaps it was not too late now for her to begin to take the place in the household that she had mapped out for herself. This thought gave her new comfort, and with an earnest prayer that she might be given strength to carry out her plans she fell asleep.