Marjorie's face, which had brightened for a moment, grew very serious again. "I don't know," she said. "If he knew her I'm sure he would come--any one would--but if he had never even heard of her existence it would be different, of course. I don't know how I'm going to manage it; I only know it's the thing I want most in the whole world, and I'm going to try for it with all my might." There was a ring in Marjorie's voice, and a light in her eyes, which impressed her friend, and with a quick, affectionate impulse, Undine caught her hand and squeezed it. "I wish I could help," she said, "but there isn't anything I can do except pray about it. I will pray every night, just as hard as I do to remember, and if it really should happen I think I should be almost as happy as you." Just then the conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and voices, and with a whispered caution to Undine not to breathe a word to any one, Marjorie hurried away to join her father and uncle, who were returning from their walk. Everybody made a great effort to be cheerful at supper that evening. Even Mr. Carleton, who was usually rather quiet, threw himself manfully into the breach, and told funny stories that made them all laugh. After all, the evening wasn't as dreadful as Marjorie had feared it was going to be, but when bedtime came, and she had to say good-night to her family for the last time for eight whole months, she felt herself in immediate danger of breaking down. Mrs. Graham sat for a long time by her daughter's bedside that night, and they had what Marjorie called "a perfectly Heavenly talk." It was a serious talk, but not a sad one, and when it was over, and Marjorie flung her arms round her mother's neck, and did break down just a little, things did not seem nearly as hopeless as she had expected. "I don't believe any other girl in the world has such a perfect mother as I have," was Marjorie's last waking thought. "I don't deserve her, and never can, but I'm going to try not to disappoint her any more than I can possibly help. One winter can't last for ever, and when June comes, and I am at home again, how gloriously happy we shall all be!" CHAPTER VII MARJORIE WRITES LETTERS "October 28th, 19-- "MY OWN PRECIOUS MOTHER: "The first letter must be to you, of course, and the next to Aunt Jessie. Uncle Henry says if I write now I can post my letter when we stop at Albuquerque this afternoon. Oh, Mother darling, was it only this morning that I said good-bye to you all? It seems as if I had been away a month already.