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The Rainbow Bridge




BOOKS BY FRANCES MARGARET FOX

 =WHAT GLADYS SAW.= A NATURE STORY OF FARM AND FOREST. With
 full page illustration. Containing 318 pages. Cloth bound. Price,
 $1.25.

 =THE RAINBOW BRIDGE.= A STORY. With full page colored frontispiece.
 Containing 254 pages. Cloth bound. Price, $1.25.




[Illustration: MRS. MOORE ROCKED A BABY BEFORE THE NURSERY FIRE.]




                The Rainbow Bridge

                    A Story

                       By
               FRANCES MARGARET FOX

       _Author of "What Gladys Saw," "Farmer
            Brown and the Birds," etc._

                  ILLUSTRATED BY
                 FRANK T. MERRILL

[Illustration]

                 W. A. WILDE COMPANY
              BOSTON             CHICAGO




                  _Copyright, 1905_
                BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY

                _All rights reserved_

                 THE RAINBOW BRIDGE




                         _To
              the dear friend of my childhood
                    and later years
                Mrs. William W. Crouch_




Contents

      I. A LITTLE PILGRIM BEGINS A JOURNEY           11

     II. MARIAN'S FIRST DAY IN SCHOOL                19

    III. SHE GOES TO CHURCH                          27

     IV. AUNT AMELIA                                 40

      V. MARIAN'S NEW HOME                           48

     VI. THAT YELLOW CUCUMBER                        58

    VII. AN UNDESERVING CHILD                        66

   VIII. IN THE NAME OF SANTA CLAUS                  73

     IX. AT THE RICH MAN'S TABLE                     83

      X. A GAME OF SLICED BIRDS                      94

     XI. THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR                105

    XII. MARIAN'S DIARY                             127

   XIII. DIPHTHERIA                                 146

    XIV. MUSICAL CONVERSATIONS                      163

     XV. LITTLE SISTER TO THE DANDELION             173

    XVI. PROFESSOR LEE, BOTANIST                    185

   XVII. THE COMPOSITION ON WILD FLOWERS            192

  XVIII. MARIAN'S LETTER HOME                       199

    XIX. THE MOST TRUTHFUL CHILD IN SCHOOL          204

     XX. MORE CHANGES                               215

    XXI. MARIAN REMEMBERS HER DIARY                 220

   XXII. FLORENCE WESTON'S MOTHER                   231

  XXIII. HOW MARIAN CROSSED THE RAINBOW BRIDGE      241




The Rainbow Bridge




CHAPTER I

A LITTLE PILGRIM BEGINS A JOURNEY


THERE was always room for one more in the Home for Little Pilgrims.
Especially was this true of the nursery; not because the nursery was
so large, nor because there was the least danger that the calico cats
might be lonesome, but Mrs. Moore loved babies. It made no difference
to her whether the wee strangers were white or black, bright or stupid,
she treated them all alike. They were dressed, undressed, bathed, fed
and put to sleep at exactly the same hours every day, that is, they
were laid in their cribs whenever it was time for them to go to sleep.
Little Pilgrims were never rocked and Mrs. Moore had no time for
lullaby songs, whatever may have been her inclination.

Yet there came a night when Mrs. Moore rocked a baby before the nursery
fire and sung to it all the songs she knew. That was the night Marian
Lee entered the Home with bright eyes wide open. She not only had her
eyes open when she was placed in Mrs. Moore's arms, but she kept them
open and somehow compelled Mrs. Moore to break her own rules and do as
she had never done with a new baby.

To be sure, Marian Lee couldn't talk, having started on her pilgrimage
only six months before, but in a way of her own, she declared herself
well pleased with the Home and with the nursery in particular. She
enjoyed her bath and said so. The warm fire in the grate pleased
her and Mrs. Moore's face was lovely, if a baby's ideas were of any
account. The trouble began when Marian was carried into the still room
where the sleeping Pilgrims were, and placed in a crib. The minute her
head touched the pillow she began to cry. When Mrs. Moore left her,
she cried louder. That awakened tiny Joe in the nearest crib and when
he began to wail, Bennie and Johnnie, Sam and Katie, as well as half
a dozen others joined in the chorus. Not to be outdone by these older
Pilgrims, Marian screamed louder than any of them until Mrs. Moore took
her back to the fire and quiet was restored.

Now it was strictly against Mrs. Moore's rules to humor a baby in that
fashion, and Mrs. Moore told Marian so, although she added in the next
breath, "Poor little dear." The "poor little dear" was cooing once more
and there really seemed nothing to do but kiss, and cuddle and rock the
baby as her own mother might have done. She was so unlike the others in
the Home; so soft, round and beautiful.

"You are no ordinary baby, precious one," said Mrs. Moore, whereupon
Marian laughed, flourished her hands and seemed much pleased. "I
think," continued Mrs. Moore, as she kissed the pink fists, "I think
some one has talked to you a great deal. My babies are different, poor
little things, they don't talk back as you do."

Before long, the rows of white cribs in the other room were forgotten
and Mrs. Moore began singing to Marian as though she were the only baby
in the big Home. Lullaby after lullaby she sang while the fire burned
low, yet the baby would not sleep. Softly at last, Mrs. Moore began a
lullaby long unsung:

  "All the little birdies have gone to sleep,
    Why does my pet so wide awake keep?
  Peep, peep, go to sleep, peep, peep, go to sleep.

  "All the little babies their prayers have said,
    Their mothers have tucked them up snugly in bed.
  Peep, peep, go to sleep, peep, peep, go to sleep."

When the blue eyes closed, Mrs. Moore suddenly realized it was but
another Little Pilgrim that she held and not her own baby so often
hushed to sleep by that old lullaby many years ago. For the sake of
that baby, Mrs. Moore had loved all the motherless little ones in the
Home--all the unfortunate, neglected waifs brought to its doors. She
had loved them impartially until that night. She had never before asked
who a baby was, nor what its surroundings had been. Its future was
her only concern. To care for each baby while it was in the nursery
and to be sure it was placed in a good home when taken away, was all
she wished to know. No baby had ever crept into Mrs. Moore's innermost
heart as Marian did that night. An hour later the superintendent was
surprised when Mrs. Moore asked for the history of that latest Little
Pilgrim.

"She's a fine child," mused the superintendent, adding cheerfully,
"we'll have no trouble finding a home for her; I doubt if she's here a
month."

Mrs. Moore said nothing but she was sure Marian would stay more than a
month. After she heard the superintendent's story, she was more sure
of it. Thus it happened that tiny Joe, who was not a bit attractive,
and Bennie and Johnnie, who were disagreeable babies if such a thing
may be, and Sam and Katie whose fathers and mothers were drunkards, as
well as a dozen other little waifs, were given away long before Marian
learned to talk: Marian, the beautiful baby, was somehow always kept
behind Mrs. Moore's skirts. As the child grew older, she was still
kept in the background. The plainest dresses ever sent in to Little
Pilgrims, were given to Marian. Her hair was kept short and when
special visitors were expected, she was taken to the playground by an
older girl. All this time a happier baby never lived than Marian. No
one in the Home knew how tenderly Mrs. Moore loved her. No one knew of
the caresses lavished upon her when the infant Pilgrims were busy with
their blocks or asleep in their cribs.

At last the superintendent questioned Mrs. Moore. He said it seemed
strange that no one wished to adopt so lovely a child. Mrs. Moore
explained. She told the superintendent she hoped Marian would be
claimed by folks of her own, but if not--Mrs. Moore hesitated at that
and the superintendent understood.

"We won't give her away," he promised, "until we find the right kind of
a mother for her. That child shall have a good home."

Too soon to please Mrs. Moore, Marian outgrew her crib and went
to sleep in the dormitory. The child was pleased with the change,
especially as Mrs. Moore tucked her in bed and kissed her every night
just as she had done in the nursery. Marian was glad to be no longer
a baby. The dormitory with its rows and rows of little white beds,
delighted the child, and to be allowed to sit up hours after the babies
were asleep was pure joy.

The dining-room was another pleasure. To sit down to dinner with two
hundred little girls and boys and to be given one of the two hundred
bright bibs, filled her heart with pride. The bibs certainly were an
attraction. Marian was glad hers was pink. She buttoned it to her chair
after dinner just as she saw the others do.

One thing troubled Marian. She wished Mrs. Moore to sit at the table
beside her and drink milk from a big, white mug. "Do childrens always
have dinner all alone?" she asked.

Instead of answering the child, Mrs. Moore told her to run away and
play. Then she looked out of the window for a long, long time. Perhaps
she had done wrong after all in keeping the baby so long in a "Home
with a capital H."




CHAPTER II

MARIAN'S FIRST DAY IN SCHOOL


THERE was no kindergarten in the Home for Little Pilgrims when Marian
was a baby. The child was scarcely five when she marched into the
schoolroom to join the changing ranks of little folks who were such a
puzzle to their teacher. Every day one or more new faces appeared in
that schoolroom and every day familiar faces were gone. For that reason
alone it was a hard school to manage.

The teacher, who had been many years in the Home, smiled as she found
a seat for Marian in the front row. Marian at least might be depended
upon to come regularly to school: then, too, she would learn easily
and be a credit to her instructor. Plain dresses and short hair might
do their worst, the face of the child attracted attention. The teacher
smiled again as Marian sat in the front seat before her, with hands
folded, waiting to see what might happen next.

Roll call interested the child. She wondered why the little girls and
boys said "Present" when the teacher read their names from a big book.
Once in a while when a name was called, nobody answered. Finally the
teacher, smiling once more, said, "Marian Lee." The little girl sat
perfectly still with lips tightly closed.

"You must say 'present' when your name is called," suggested the
teacher.

No response.

"Say present," the teacher repeated.

"But I don't like this kind of play," Marian protested, and then
wondered why all the children laughed and the teacher looked annoyed.

"But you must say present," the young lady insisted and Marian obeyed,
though she thought it a silly game.

The things that happened in the schoolroom that morning were many and
queer. A little boy had to stand on the floor in front of the teacher's
desk because he threw a paper wad. Then when the teacher wasn't looking
he aimed another at Marian and hit her on the nose and when Marian
laughed aloud, the teacher, who didn't know what happened, shook her
head and looked cross. It distressed Marian so to have the teacher look
cross that she felt miserable and wondered what folks went to school
for anyway. A few moments later, she knew. The primer class was called
and Marian, being told to do so, followed a dozen Little Pilgrims to
the recitation seat where she was told that children go to school to
learn their letters. Marian knew her letters, having learned them from
the blocks in the nursery.

"You must learn to read," advised the teacher, and Marian stared
helplessly about the schoolroom. She felt sure it wouldn't be a bit of
fun to learn to read. Nor was it, if her first lesson was a sample.

It wasn't long before Marian was tired of sitting still. She wasn't
used to it. At last she remembered that in her pocket was a china doll,
an inch high. On her desk was the new primer. The cover was pasteboard
and of course one could chew pasteboard. The china doll needed a crib
and as there seemed nothing to make a crib of but the cover of her
primer, Marian chewed a corner of it, flattened it out and fitted the
doll in. It pleased her, and she showed it to the little girl in the
next seat. Soon the teacher noticed that Marian was turning around and
showing her primer to all the children near, and the children were
smiling.

"Marian, bring your book to me," said the teacher. Then there was
trouble. Little Pilgrims had to be taught not to chew their books. The
teacher gave Marian what one of the older girls called a "Lecture," and
Marian cried.

"I didn't have anything to do," she sobbed.

"Nothing to do?" exclaimed the teacher, "why, little girl, you should
study your lesson as you see the other children doing. That is why you
are in school--to study."

Marian went to her seat, but how to study she didn't know. She watched
the other children bending over their books, making noises with their
lips, so she bent over her primer and made so much noise the teacher
told her she must keep still.

"Why, Marian," said the young lady, "what makes you so naughty? I
thought you were a good little girl!"

Poor Marian didn't know what to think. Tears, however, cleared her
views. She decided that as going to school was a thing that must be
endured because Mrs. Moore would be displeased otherwise, it would do
no good to make a fuss. She would draw pictures on her slate or play
with the stones in her pocket--anything to pass the time. There was
a great deal in knowing what one could or could not do safely, and
Marian learned that lesson faster than she learned to read. When she
was dismissed that afternoon, the little girl flew to the nursery to
tell Mrs. Moore about her first school day. Soon after when Marian ran
laughing into the hall on her way to the playground, she met Janey
Clark who sat behind her in school.

"Is Mrs. Moore your ma?" asked Janey.

"What's a ma?" inquired Marian, seizing Janey's two hands.

"A ma," was the reply, "why a ma is a mother. Is Mrs. Moore your
mother?"

"Maybe," agreed Marian. "Oh, no, she isn't either. I know all about
mothers, we sing about 'em, of course. I guess I never had one."

"My mother just died," declared Janey, tossing her head in an important
way that aroused Marian's envy.

"Well, mine died too!" responded Marian.

"Did you have a funeral?" persisted Janey.

"Did you?" Marian cautiously inquired.

"Well I should say yes," was the reply.

"Then I did too," observed Marian.

"Well," remarked Janey, "that's nothing to brag of; I don't suppose
there's anybody in this Home that got here unless all their folks died
dead. We are here because we don't belong anywhere else, and we are
going to be given away to folks that'll take us, pretty soon."

That was too much for Marian. "Why, Janey Clark, what a talk!" she
exclaimed, then turning, she ran back to the nursery.

"Nanna, Nanna!" she cried, "where's my mother?"

Mrs. Moore almost dropped a fretful baby at the question.

"Did I ever have a mother?" continued the child, whose dark blue eyes
looked black she was so much in earnest. "I thought mothers were just
only in singing, but Janey Clark had a mother and she died, and if
Janey Clark had a mother, I guess I had one too that died."

The fretful baby was given to an assistant and Mrs. Moore took Marian
in her lap. "What else did Janey tell you?" she asked.

"Well, Janey said that all of us childrens are going to be gived away
to folks. Mrs. Moore, did all the childrens that live here have mothers
that died?"

"Not all of them, Marian, some of the mothers are living and the
children will go back to them: but your mother, little girl, will never
come back for you. God took her away when He sent you to us. We keep
little children here in our home until we find new fathers and mothers
for them. Sometimes lovely mothers come here for little girls like
you. How is it, Marian, do you want a mother?"

The child nodded her head and looked so pleased Mrs. Moore was
disappointed. It would be hard enough to part with the child anyway,
but to think she wished to go was surprising.

Two soft arms stole around Mrs. Moore's neck. "I'm going to have you
for my mother," Marian explained, "and I'm going to live here always. I
don't want to be gived away."




CHAPTER III

SHE GOES TO CHURCH


JANEY CLARK was taken ill one day and was carried to the hospital. When
she returned months afterward, she had something to tell Marian.

"You want to get yourself adopted," was her advice. "I'm going to,
first chance I get. When I was too well to stay in the hospital and not
enough well to come home, a pretty lady came and said would I like to
go to her house and stay until I was all better."

"Did she 'dopt you?" questioned Marian.

"No, of course not, or I could have stayed at her house and she would
be my mother. She didn't want to keep me but only to borrow me so
the children she is aunt to would know about Little Pilgrims and
how lucky it is not to be one their own selves. And at her house,"
continued Janey, "if you liked something they had for dinner pretty
well, you could have a second helping, if you would say please. You
better believe I said it when there was ice cream. And the children
she was aunt to took turns dividing chocolate candy with me, and the
only trouble was they gave me too much and made me sick most all the
time. What do you think! One day a girl said she wished I was a little
cripple like a boy that was there once, because she liked to be kind
to little cripples and wash their faces. Wasn't she just lovely? Oh,
Marian, I want to be adopted and have a mother like that lady and a
room all my own and everything."

"But I would rather live with Mrs. Moore," objected Marian. "I've
picked her out for my mother."

"All right for you, stay here if you want to," agreed Janey, "but I'm
not, you just wait and see."

Janey Clark was adopted soon after and when Marian was invited to visit
her, she changed her mind about living forever in the Home for Little
Pilgrims. Mrs. Moore promised to choose a mother for her from the many
visitors to the Home, yet she and Marian proved hard to suit.

"I want a mother just like my Nanna," said Marian to the
superintendent, who agreed to do all he could to find one. In spite of
his help Marian seemed likely to stay in the Home, not because no one
wanted her but because the child objected to the mothers who offered
themselves. All these months the little girl was so happy and contented
the superintendent said she was like a sunbeam among the Little
Pilgrims and if the school-teacher had some ideas that he and Mrs.
Moore didn't share, she smiled and said nothing.

In time, Marian talked of the mother she wished to have as she did of
heaven--of something beautiful but too indefinite and far away to be
more than a dream. One never-to-be-forgotten morning, the dream took
shape. A woman visited the Home, leading a little girl by the hand. A
woman so lovely the face of the dullest Little Pilgrim lighted as she
passed. It was not so much the bright gold of her hair, nor the blue
eyes that attracted the children, but the way she smiled and the way
she spoke won them all.

She was the mother for whom Marian had waited. It didn't occur to the
child that the woman might not want her.

It was noon before the strangers were through visiting the chapel, the
schoolroom, the nursery and the dormitories. Like a shadow Marian had
followed them over the building, fearing to lose sight of her chosen
mother. On reaching the dining-room the woman and child, with the
superintendent, stood outside the door where they watched the Little
Pilgrims march in to dinner. Noticing Marian, the superintendent asked
her why she didn't go to the table, and Marian tried to tell him but
couldn't speak a word. The man was about to send her in the dining-room
when he caught the appealing look on the child's face. At that moment
the stranger turned. Marian seized her dress and the woman, glancing
down, saw the dear little one and stooping, kissed her.

The superintendent smiled but Marian began to cry as the woman tried
ever so gently to release her dress from the small, clinging fingers.

"We must go now," the stranger said, "so good-bye, dear child."

"I'm going with you," announced Marian. "I want you for my mother."

"But, don't you see, I have a little girl? What could I do with two?"
remonstrated the woman. "There, there," she continued, as Marian began
to sob piteously, "run in to dinner and some day I will come to see
you again. Perhaps they may let you visit my little girl and me before
long. Would you like that?"

"No, no," wailed Marian, "I want you for my mother."

"Come, Marian, sweetheart, let's go find Mrs. Moore," suggested the
superintendent, taking her by force from the visitor, whose eyes
filled with tears at the sight of little outstretched arms. For years
afterwards there were times when that woman seemed to feel the clinging
fingers of the Little Pilgrim who chose her for her mother. She might
have taken her home. The next time she called to inquire for the
child, Marian was gone.

An unexpected thing happened as Marian was borne away to the nursery.
The stranger's little girl cried and would not be comforted because
she couldn't stay and have dinner with the Little Pilgrims. She was
still grieving over her first sorrow after Mrs. Moore had succeeded in
winning back the smiles to the face of her precious Marian.

"Well, I know one sure thing," declared the Little Pilgrim as she
raised her head from Mrs. Moore's shoulder and brushed away the tears.
"I know that same mother will come and get me some time and take me
home and then you will come and live with me--and won't it be lovely!
Let's have some dinner, I'm hungry!"

Mrs. Moore smiled and sighed at the same time, but she ordered a
luncheon for two served in the nursery and Marian's troubles vanished:
also the luncheon.

The next time the superintendent saw the child, she was sitting on the
nursery floor singing to the babies. He was surprised and pleased when
he heard the sweet, clear voice and straightway sought Mrs. Moore.

"Let me take her Sunday," he suggested. "I didn't know our Marian was a
singer."

"Are you going into the country?" asked the nurse.

"No, Mrs. Moore, not this time. We expect to have services in one of
the largest churches right here in the city. We have made special
arrangements and I shall take twenty-five of the best singers in the
Home with me. Marian will have plenty of company."

"She is young," objected Mrs. Moore.

The superintendent laughed. "Petey Ross," said he, "was two years old
when he made his first public appearance on the platform; Marian is
nearly six."

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Moore, "that is true and I remember that Petey
Ross was adopted and in less than a week after that first appearance.
Marian," she continued, "come here, darling. Do you want to go to a big
church with the children next Sunday and sing one of the songs you and
I sing to the babies?"

"Yes, Nanna, what for?"

"Because the superintendent wishes you to. Every Sunday he takes some
of our little boys and girls away to sing in the different churches,
where he tells the people all about the Home for Little Pilgrims."

"Oh, yes, now I know," declared Marian. "Janey Clark used to go and
sing. She said that was the way to get yourself adopted. I'd like to go
if I don't have to get adopted and if Nanna may go too."

"All right, Marian, I will go," assented Mrs. Moore, "and nobody shall
adopt you unless you wish it. Now run back to the babies. Little Ned
and Jakey are quarreling over the elephant. Hurry, Marian, or its ears
will be gone."

"She'll demand a salary in another year," remarked the superintendent,
watching the little girl's successful management of the babies.

"I shouldn't know how to get along without her," said Mrs. Moore, "and
yet it isn't right to let her grow up here."

Sunday morning it would have been hard to find a happier child than
Marian anywhere in the big city. She had never been in a church before
and quickly forgot her pretty white dress and curls in the wonder
of it all. She sat on the platform, a radiant little Pilgrim among
the twenty-five waifs. Soon the church was filled. After the opening
exercises the service was turned over to the superintendent of the Home
for Little Pilgrims. He made a few remarks, and then asked Marian to
sing. Pleased by the friendly faces in the pews and encouraged by Mrs.
Moore's presence, Marian sang timidly at first, then joyously as to the
babies in the nursery.

  "'I am Jesus' little lamb
  Happy all the day I am,
  Jesus loves me this I know
  For I'm His lamb.'"

As she went on with the song, the little girl was surprised to see many
of the audience in tears. Even Mrs. Moore was wiping her eyes, although
she smiled bravely and Marian knew she was not displeased. What could
be the matter with the folks that bright Sunday morning? Janey Clark
said everybody always cried at funerals. Perhaps it was a funeral. At
the close of her song Marian sat down, much puzzled. After Johnnie
Otis recited the poem he always recited on Visitors' Day at school,
"The Orphan's Prayer," all the Little Pilgrims, Marian included, were
asked to sing their chapel song. What was there sad about that, Marian
wondered. She always sang it over and over to the babies to make them
stop crying.

  "It is all for the best, oh, my Father,
    All for the best, all for the best."

When the Little Pilgrims were seated, the superintendent made a speech
to which Marian listened. For the first time in her life she knew the
meaning of the Home for Little Pilgrims. She understood at last all
that Janey Clark had tried to tell her. No wonder the people cried.
Marian stared at the superintendent, longing and dreading to hear more.
Story after story he told of wrecked homes and scattered families; of
little children, homeless and friendless left to their fate upon the
street.

"Whatever may be the causes which bring these waifs to our doors,
remember," said he, "the children themselves are not to blame. It is
through no fault of theirs their young lives have been saddened and
trouble has come upon them while your little ones are loved and cared
for in comfortable homes."

The superintendent grew eloquent as he went on. How could it be, Marian
wondered, that she had never known before what a sad, sad place was
the Little Pilgrims' Home? Where did her mother die and where was
her father? Perhaps he was in the dreadful prison mentioned by the
superintendent. It was such a pitiful thing to be a Little Pilgrim.
Marian wondered how she had ever lived so long. Oh, if she could
change places with one of the fortunate little ones in the pews. The
superintendent was right. Every little girl needed a father and mother
of her own. She wanted the lovely mother who had passed her by. What
was the superintendent saying? something about her? The next thing
Marian knew the man had taken her in his arms and placed her upon the
little table beside him. She thought he said "'For of such is the
Kingdom of Heaven,'"--she wasn't sure.

In the quiet moment that followed, Marian looked all over the church
for the mother of her dreams. Maybe she was there and perhaps she would
take her home. If she could only see that one face for a moment.

"I am going to ask our little girl for another song," the
superintendent said, telling Marian what to sing. The child hesitated,
then looked appealing towards Mrs. Moore. She had forgotten her during
the speech--dear, kind Mrs. Moore.

"Don't be frightened," whispered the superintendent, whereupon to the
surprise of every one in the church, Marian put her head upon his
shoulder and sobbed aloud, "I don't want to be a Little Pilgrim any
more! Oh, I don't want to be a Little Pilgrim any more!"

Another second and Mrs. Moore's arms were around the child and the
superintendent was alone on the platform with the twenty-five.

"He told me to take you for a walk in the park," whispered Mrs. Moore,
"so don't cry, Marian, and we will leave the church quickly as we can.
We will talk about the Little Pilgrims out in the sunshine where the
birds are singing and we can see the blue sky."

Mrs. Moore would have been tempted to have stayed in the church had she
known the superintendent's reason for wishing her to take the child
away; nor would the good man have done as he did, could he have guessed
the immediate consequences. When Marian was gone, the superintendent
told her story effectively. She might have had her choice of many homes
within a week had it not been for the appearance of Aunt Amelia.




CHAPTER IV

AUNT AMELIA


THERE was no question about it. Aunt Amelia had a perfect right to
claim the child. The superintendent was sorry to admit it, but what
could he do? Mrs. Moore was heartbroken, but she was powerless. The
proofs were positive. Aunt Amelia's husband and Marian Lee's father
were half-brothers and here was Aunt Amelia insisting upon her right to
do her duty by the child.

Marian never heard of Aunt Amelia until it was all over and the
superintendent sent for her. She came dancing into the office, her
face aglow until she saw Aunt Amelia. Then the sunshine faded from
her eyes and she shrank past the stranger, scarcely breathing until
the superintendent's arms were about her. From that safe shelter she
surveyed Aunt Amelia.

There was nothing in the woman's appearance to inspire confidence in
a little child. She was tall, thin, bloodless. One felt conscious of
the bones in her very forehead. She wore her scant, black hair in wiry
crimps parted in the middle. Her eyes were the color of stone, while
her lips formed a thin, pale lone line closing over projecting front
teeth. There was a brittle look about her ears and nose as though a
blow might shatter them. Angles completed the picture.

"You say you have a child of your own, Mrs. St. Claire?" The
superintendent asked the question doubtfully. It seemed probable that
his ears had deceived him.

"I have," was the reply.

"Then Marian will be sure of a playmate." The man seemed talking to
himself.

"If she behaves herself--perhaps," was the response.

"What do you mean?" demanded the superintendent.

"I think I expressed myself clearly," said Mrs. St. Claire. "If Marian
behaves and is worthy of my little daughter's companionship, we may
allow them to play together occasionally."

"Does she want to 'dopt me?" whispered Marian; "tell her no, quick--I
got to go back to the nursery. Put me down."

"I am your Aunt Amelia," announced the woman, "and I have come to take
you to Michigan to live with your Uncle George and me."

"Where did I get any Uncle George?" asked Marian, turning to the
superintendent.

"It isn't necessary to give a mere child too much information," put in
Mrs. St. Claire; "it is enough for her to know that she has relatives
who are willing to take her and do their duty by her."

Regardless of this the man answered one of the questions he saw in
Marian's solemn blue eyes.

"Your uncle and aunt," he explained, "are visiting in the city; they
were in church last Sunday when you sang. When relatives come for
Little Pilgrims, Marian, we have to let them go."

"You will not send me away with--her!" exclaimed the child, terror and
entreaty expressed in the uplifted face.

"Dear child, we must."

"But I won't go, I won't go," cried Marian, clinging to the
superintendent for protection. "Oh, you won't send me away, Mrs. Moore
won't let them take me--I won't go! Please let me stay until the pretty
mother comes again and I will ask her to take me and I know she will.
Oh, if you love me, don't send me away with her!"

"It is just as I told my husband Sunday morning," remarked Mrs. St.
Claire as the superintendent tried to soothe Marian's violent grief. "I
said the child was subject to tantrums. It is sad to see such traits
cropping out in one so young. Lack of training may have much to do with
it. Other influences----"

"Pardon me, madam," interrupted the superintendent, "you forget that
this little one has been with us since she was six months old. Mrs.
Moore has been a mother to her in every sense of the word. It is only
natural that she dreads going among strangers. She is a good little
girl and we all love her. Hush, sweetheart," he whispered to the
sobbing, trembling child, "perhaps your aunt may decide to leave you
with us."

"I--I--I won't--won't go," protested Marian, "I--I won't go, I won't
go!"

"Are you willing, madam, to give this child to us?" continued the
superintendent; "perhaps you may wish to relinquish your claim, under
the circumstances."

"I never shrink from my duty," declared the woman, rising as she spoke,
grim determination in every line of her purple gown; "my husband
feels it a disgrace to find his brother's child in an orphan asylum.
She cannot be left in a charitable institution while we have a crust
to bestow upon her. She will take nothing from this place except the
articles which belonged to her mother. I will call for the child at
eight this evening. Good-morning, sir."

"I--I won't go--I--won't go! You--you needn't come for me!" Marian had
the last word that time.

The babies were left to the care of assistant nurses that afternoon.
Mrs. Moore held Marian and rocked her as on that night so long before
when she became a little Pilgrim. For some time neither of them spoke
and tears fell like rain above the brown head nestled in Mrs. Moore's
arms. Marian was the first to break the silence. "I--I won't go, I
won't go," she repeated between choking sobs, "I--I won't go, I won't
go, she'll find out she won't get me!"

Mrs. Moore tried to think of something to say. Just then a merry voice
was heard singing in the hall outside,

  "It is all for the best, oh, my Father,
   All for the best, all for the best."

"Will they let me come to see you every day?" asked Marian when the
singer was beyond hearing. "Will they?" she repeated as Mrs. Moore made
no answer. "Where is Michigan, anyway? What street car goes out there?"

It was some time before Mrs. Moore could speak. Her strongest impulse
was to hide the precious baby. What would become of her darling among
unloving strangers? Who would teach her right from wrong? Suddenly
Mrs. Moore realized that in days to come there might be time enough for
tears. There were yet a few hours left her with the little girl which
she must improve.

Gently and tenderly she told Marian the truth. Michigan was far, far
away. She must go alone, to live among strangers--yet not alone, for
there was One in heaven who would be with her and who would watch over
her and love her always, as He had in the Home. Poor Marian heard the
voice but the words meant nothing to her until long afterwards. Mrs.
Moore herself could never recall just what she said that sad day. She
knew she tried to tell Marian to be brave, to be good; to tell the
truth and do right: but more than once she broke down and wept with her
darling.

When Mrs. St. Claire called at eight, she was greeted by a quiet,
submissive child who said she was ready to go. More than that, the
little thing tried to smile as she promised to be a good girl. Perhaps
the smile wouldn't have been so easily discouraged if Mrs. St. Claire
had kissed the swollen, tear-stained face, or had said one comforting
word.

The time of parting came. When it was over, Mrs. Moore lifted the
sobbing child into the carriage. Then she knew that in spite of the
stars the night was dark.




CHAPTER V

MARIAN'S NEW HOME


THE second day of the journey to the new home, Marian laughed aloud.
She had slept well the night before and had taken a lively interest in
everything she saw from the time she was awakened by the first glimpse
of daylight through the sleeper windows. Not that she was happy, far
from it, but it was something that she wasn't utterly miserable.

Uncle George was pleasanter than his wife, and although he said little
from behind his newspaper, that little was encouraging: his tones were
kind.

Ella St. Claire, the cousin, three years younger than Marian, was
inclined to be friendly. Left to themselves the children might have
had a delightful time, but Mrs. St. Claire had no intention of leaving
the two to themselves; it was not part of her plan. Marian made
several attempts to get acquainted and Ella kept edging away from her
mother, until in the middle of the forenoon, Mrs. St. Claire remarked
that if she wished to have any peace she must separate the children.
Accordingly she took Ella by the hand and went several seats back,
leaving Marian alone. As she left, Ella begged for a cooky.

"I'm hungry, too," added Marian.

Mrs. St. Claire gave Ella the cooky and passed a bit of dry bread to
Marian.

"If you please," suggested Marian, "I like cookies, too."

"You will take what I give you or go without," said Mrs. St. Claire;
"you can't be starving after the breakfast you ate in Buffalo."

Marian, sorry she had spoken, dropped from sight in the high-backed
seat. There was a lump in her throat and so deep a longing for the
Home she had left it was hard to keep the tears back. Just then an old
man began snoring so loud the passengers smiled and Marian laughed in
spite of herself. Having laughed once she grew more cheerful. There
were green fields and bits of woodland to be seen from the car windows,
cows, sheep, bright flowers growing along the track, country roads and
little children playing in their yards, sitting on fences and waving
their hands to the passing train. Wonderful sights for a child straight
from the Little Pilgrims' Home in a big city.

Uncle George, growing tired of his paper, crossed the aisle and sat
down beside his niece. Marian looked up with a happy smile. "I wish the
cars would stop where the flowers grow," she said, "I'd like to pick
some."

"The cars will stop where the flowers grow," answered the man. "When we
get home you will live among the flowers; Marian, will you like that?"

"Oh, goody!" the child exclaimed. "Oh, I am so glad! May I pick some
flowers?"

"Indeed you may, and we'll go to the woods where the wild flowers are.
Were you ever in the woods?"

Marian shook her head. "I've been in the Public Gardens and on the
Common, though, and I know all about woods."

"Who told you about the woods?"

"Nanna--Mrs. Moore."

"Was she your nurse?"

"Yes, Uncle George, she was my everybody. I love her more than anybody
else in the world. She is the prettiest, nicest one in the Home."

"See here, little girl," interrupted the man, "will you promise me
something?"

"Why, yes, what is it?"

"I want you to do me this one favor. Don't tell any one you were ever
in an orphan's home."

The child was silent. "What will I talk about?" she finally asked.

Uncle George laughed. "Take my advice and don't say much about
anything," was his suggestion. "You'll find it the easiest way to get
along. But whatever you talk about, don't mention that Home."

Later, Aunt Amelia added a word on the same subject, but in a manner so
harsh Marian became convinced that to have lived in an orphan asylum
was a disgrace equal perhaps to a prison record. She determined never
to mention the Home for Little Pilgrims. Janey Clark must have known
what she was talking about and even Mrs. Moore, when questioned, had
admitted that if she had a little girl it would make her feel sad to
know she lived in a Home. Before the journey was ended Marian was
thankful that relatives had claimed her. Perhaps if she tried hard, she
might be able to win Aunt Amelia's love. She would be a good little
girl and do her best.

One thing Marian learned before she had lived ten days with Aunt
Amelia. The part of the house where she was welcome was the outside.
Fortunately it was summer and the new home was in a country town where
streets were wide and the yards were large. Back of Aunt Amelia's
garden was an orchard, and there or in the locust grove near by, Marian
passed untroubled hours. The front lawn, bordered with shrubs and
flower beds, was pleasing enough, but it wasn't the place for Marian
who was not allowed to pick a blossom, although the pansies begged for
more chance to bloom. She could look at the pansies though, and feel
of the roses if Aunt Amelia was out of sight. How Marian loved the
roses--especially the velvety pink ones. She told them how much she
loved them, and if the roses made no response to the endearing terms
lavished upon them, at least they never turned away, nor said unkind,
hard things to make her cry and long for Mrs. Moore.

When Marian had been with the St. Claires a week, Aunt Amelia told her
she could never hope to hear from Mrs. Moore, partly because Mrs. Moore
didn't know where she lived, and also because Mrs. Moore would gladly
forget such a bad tempered, ungrateful little girl.

The pink roses under the blue sky were a comfort then. So were the
birds. Day after day Marian gave them messages to carry to Mrs. Moore.
She talked to them in the orchard and in the locust grove, and many
a wild bird listened, with its head on one side, to the loving words
of the little girl and then flew straight away over the tree-tops
and the house-tops, away and away out of sight. Several weeks passed
before Marian knew that she might pick dandelions and clover blossoms,
Bouncing Bet and all the roadside blooms, to her heart's content. That
was joy!

Under a wide-spreading apple-tree, Marian made a collection of
treasures she found in the yard. Curious stones were chief among them.
Bits of moss, pretty twigs, bright leaves, broken china, colored
glass--there was no end to the resources of that yard. One morning she
found a fragile cup of blue. It looked like a tiny bit of painted egg
shell, but how could an egg be so small, and who could have painted it?
She carried the wonder to Uncle George who told her it was part of a
robin's egg.

"Who ate it?" asked Marian, whereupon Uncle George explained to her
what the merest babies knew in the world outside the city. More than
that, he went to the orchard, found a robin's nest on the low branch of
an apple-tree, and lifted her on his shoulder so that she might see it.
There were four blue eggs in the nest. Marian wanted to break them to
see the baby birds inside, but Uncle George cautioned her to wait and
let the mother bird take care of her own round cradle.

In the meantime Madam Robin scolded Uncle George and Marian until they
left the tree to watch her from a distance. That robin's nest filled
Marian's every thought for days and days. When the baby birds were
hatched she was so anxious to see them oftener than Uncle George had
time to lift her on his shoulder, she learned to climb the tree. After
that Marian was oftener in the apple-trees than under them. Had there
been no rainy days and had the summer lasted all the year, Marian would
have been a fortunate child. Aunt Amelia called her a tomboy and said
no one would ever catch Ella St. Claire climbing trees and running like
a wild child across the yard and through the locust grove.

The two children admired each other. Had it been possible they would
have played together all the time. Marian, who became a sun-browned
romp, thought there never was such a dainty creature as her delicate,
white-skinned cousin Ella, whose long black curls were never tumbled
by the wind or play: and Ella never missed a chance to talk with her
laughing, joyous cousin, who could always think of something new.

Aunt Amelia said that Ella wasn't the same child when she was left
with Marian for half an hour, and she could not allow the children to
play together for her little daughter's sake. It was her duty as a
mother to guard that little daughter from harmful influences.

This was the talk to which Marian listened day after day. It grieved
her to the quick. Again and again, especially on rainy days, she
promised Aunt Amelia that she would be good, and each time Aunt Amelia
sent her to her room to think over the bad things she had done and what
an ungrateful child she was. Although Marian became convinced that she
was a bad child, she couldn't sit down and think of her sins long at a
time, and her penitent spells usually ended in a concert. Uncle George
took her to one early in the summer, and ever after, playing concert
was one of Marian's favorite games. She had committed "Bingen on the
Rhine" to memory from hearing it often read in school at the Home, and
on rainy days when sent to her room, she chanted it, wailed it and
recited it until poor Ella was unhappy and discontented because she
could have no part in the fun.

Ella had a toy piano kept as an ornament. Marian's piano was a chair,
her stool was a box and her sheet music, an almanac: but in her soul
was joy.

"What can you do with such a child?" demanded Aunt Amelia.

"Let her alone," counseled Uncle George.




CHAPTER VI

THAT YELLOW CUCUMBER


ONE summer day the St. Claires were the guests of a farmer who lived a
few miles from town. Ella stayed in the house with her mother and the
farmer's wife, but Marian saw the farm; the cows and the sheep and the
fields of grain. She asked more questions that day than the hired man
ever answered at one time in his life before, and when night came he
and Marian were tired.

"She knows as much about farming as I do," the man said with a laugh
as he put the sleepy child on the back seat of the carriage when the
family were ready to go home.

"I've had a lovely time, Mr. Hired Man," Marian roused herself to
remark, "and to-morrow I'm going to play farm."

"Good haying weather," the man suggested with a smile; "better get your
barns up quick's you can."

"I'm going to," was the response; "it's a lovely game."

Whatever Marian saw or heard that pleased her fancy, she played.
Stories that were read to the little Ella were enacted again and again
in Marian's room if the day was rainy, out in the orchard or the locust
grove if the day was fair. Farming promised to be the most interesting
game of all.

Early the next morning Marian visited what she called the yarrow jungle
ever since Uncle George read jungle stories to Ella. More than one
queer looking creature tried to keep out of sight when her footsteps
were heard. The old black beetle scampered away as fast as his six legs
would carry him, though it can't be possible he remembered the time
when Marian captured him for her museum. Crickets gathered up their
fiddles, seeking safety beyond the fence. Perhaps they thought Marian
wanted them to play in the orchestra at another snail wedding. Even the
ants hastened to the hills beyond the jungle, leaving only the old toad
to wink and blink at the happy one of whom he had no fear.

"Well, Mr. Toad," said she, "why don't you hop along? I've come to
make my farm out here where the yarrow grows. Why don't you live in
the garden land? I would if I were you. Don't you know about the cool
tomato groves and the cabbage tents? I've got to clear away this jungle
so the sun may shine upon my farm the way the country man said. You
really must go, so hop along and stop winking and blinking at me." The
old toad wouldn't stir, so for his sake Marian spared the yarrow jungle.

"After all, I'll make my farm here on the border-land," said she, while
the daisies nodded and the buttercups shone brighter than before.
"Only, I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Toad, that maybe you won't like.
If you will stay there, you'll have to be an elephant in the jungle.
There, now, I s'pose you are sorry. I say--be an elephant and now you
are one." The toad didn't mind a bit. He was so used to being changed
into all sorts of animals that he never seemed to notice whether he was
an elephant or a kangaroo.

Day after day Marian worked upon her farm, enclosing fields and
meadows with high stone walls, clearing roads and planting trees.
Whatever she touched became what she wished it to be. Pasteboard
match-boxes became houses and barns. Sticks became men working upon
the farm and spools were wagons bearing loads of hay from place to
place. At a word from her, green apples, standing upon four twigs, were
instantly changed, becoming pigs, cows, sheep and horses. Kernels of
yellow corn were chickens. It was a wonderful farm and for many a sunny
hour Marian was happy. Even the old toad, winking and blinking beneath
the shadow of the yarrow jungle, must have known it.

At last there came a morning when the child went strolling through the
garden. Suddenly, while singing her usual merry song, the joyous look
faded from her face. She no longer saw the butterflies floating about
nor cared that the bumble-bee wore his best velvet coat. There were
tiny green cucumbers in that garden, just the right size for horses on
the little girl's farm. There were a great many cucumbers, so many that
Marian felt sure no one would ever miss a few. She picked a handful
and knew that she was stealing. The sun went under a cloud. A blue jay
mocked at her and a wren scolded. Though far from happy, Marian hurried
away to her farm. The old toad saw her sticking twigs in the cucumbers.
Then she placed them in a row.

"Now be animals!" she commanded, but the spell was broken--she was no
longer a farmer with magic power, but a pink-faced little girl who had
done what she knew was wrong. And the cucumbers refused to be anything
but cucumbers.

Again the little girl went to the garden, returning with one big yellow
cucumber that had gone to seed. "Now I guess I'll have a cucumber
animal," she said, in tones so cross the daisies seemed to tremble.
"You bad old cucumber, you're no good anyway, nobody could eat you, nor
make a pickle of you, so you may just turn yourself into a giant cow
right off this minute! There you are, standing on four sticks. Now be a
cow, I say."

The old cucumber wouldn't be a cow. There it stood, big and yellow,
spoiling the looks of the farm.

"What's the matter with you, old toad?" went on the little girl. "I
tell you that's a cow, and if you don't believe it you can just get
off my farm quick's you can hop. You're homely anyway, and you turned
yourself back into a toad when I said be an elephant."

How surprised the toad was when the little girl took a stick and poked
him along ahead of her. The poor old fellow had never been treated like
that in his life. When he reached the garden he hid beneath the nearest
cabbage plant. The little girl went on but came back in a short time
with her apron full of cucumbers.

"I guess I'll sit down here and put the sticks in them," she said:
but instead of touching the cucumbers the child sat on the ground
beside the toad forever so long, looking cross, oh, so cross. The toad
kept perfectly still and by and by he and the little girl heard a man
whistling. In a few minutes there was a long whistle and then no sound
in the jungle save the buzzing of flies and the chirping of birds. The
little girl was afraid of her uncle who had been her one friend in that
land of strangers. Soon she heard them calling and with her apron full
of cucumbers, Marian rose to meet him.

It may be that the old toad, as he hopped back to the yarrow jungle,
thought that he should never again see the little girl: but the next
morning in the midst of brightest sunshine, Marian returned, her
head drooping. With her little feet she destroyed the farm and then,
throwing herself face downward among the ruins, wept bitterly. When she
raised her head the old toad was staring solemnly at her, causing fresh
tears to overflow upon the round cheeks.

"Don't look at me, toad, nobody does," she wailed. "I'm dreadfully bad
and it doesn't do a bit of good to be sorry. Nobody loves me and nobody
ever will. Aunt Amelia says that Nanna wouldn't love me now. Uncle
George doesn't love me, he says he's disappointed in me! Oh, dear, oh,
dear! Nobody in this world loves me, toad, and oh, dear, I've got to
eat all alone in the kitchen for two weeks, and even the housemaid
doesn't love me and can't talk to me! Oh, dear, what made me do it!"

What could an old toad do but hide in the yarrow jungle: yet when he
turned away Marian felt utterly deserted. It was dreadful to be so bad
that even a toad wouldn't look at her.




CHAPTER VII

AN UNDESERVING CHILD


TRY as hard as she would, Marian could not fit into Aunt Amelia's home.
Everywhere within its walls, she was Marian the unwanted. Saddest of
all, the child annoyed Uncle George. Not at first, to be sure; he liked
his little niece in the beginning, but when Aunt Amelia and the little
Ella were rendered unhappy by her presence, that made a difference.

Early in the summer Uncle George insisted upon taking Marian wherever
Ella and her mother went, to picnics, to the circus and other places of
amusement, but as something disagreeable was sure to happen and trouble
seemed to follow little Marian, she was finally left at home where her
gay talk and merriment could not reach the ears of Aunt Amelia, who
called her talk "clatter" and her laughter "cackle."

"It's cucumbers," sobbed Marian, the first time she was left with the
sympathetic housemaid.

"What do you mean, you poor little thing?" asked the girl.

The child looked up in astonishment. "Don't you remember about the
cucumbers?" she asked reproachfully.

"Cucumbers," sniffed the girl. "Never mind, you poor, sweet darling,
we'll have a tea-party this afternoon, you and I,--that old pelican!"

Marian knew no better than to tell about the tea-party, what a jolly
time she had and how happy she was, closing her story by asking Uncle
George if a pelican was a chicken.

"Because," she added, "we had a little dish of cream chicken and I
didn't see any pelican, but Annie did say two or three times, 'that old
pelican!'"

Aunt Amelia was prejudiced against pelicans and she objected to
tea-parties, so Annie packed her trunk and left. Lala took her place.
Lala was equally kind but far too wise. She befriended the little girl
every way in her power but cautioned her to keep her mouth shut. She
went so far as to instruct the child in the art of lying and had there
not been deep in Marian's nature a love of truth, Lala's influence
might have been more effective. Marian turned from her without knowing
why, nor would she accept any favors from the girl unless she believed
Aunt Amelia approved.

Lala called Marian a "Little fool," Aunt Amelia called her an
undeserving, ungrateful child who would steal if she were not watched,
a saucy, bold "young one" who had disappointed her Uncle George, and
Uncle George plainly didn't love her. What wonder that Marian had a
small opinion of herself and dreaded the first Monday in September, the
beginning of her school-days among strangers.

The schoolhouse was so far from where Aunt Amelia lived, Marian carried
her luncheon in a tin pail. The child left home that Monday, a timid,
shrinking little mortal, afraid to speak to any one. She returned,
happy as a lark, swinging her dinner pail and singing a new song until
within sight of the St. Claire home. Then she walked more slowly and
entered the gate like a weary pilgrim. She expected trouble, poor
little Marian, but there happened to be callers, giving her a chance to
escape unnoticed to the locust grove where she made a jumping rope of a
wild grape vine and played until the shadows were long and the day was
done.

That evening Uncle George questioned Marian about her teacher and
how she liked school. "I hope," said he, when he had listened to the
account so gladly given, "I hope you will be a credit to your uncle and
that you will behave yourself and get to the head of your class and
stay there. Don't give your Uncle George any cause to be ashamed of his
niece. I want to be proud of you."

"Oh, do you!" exclaimed the child. "Oh, I'll try so hard to be good and
learn my lessons best of anybody. Then will you love me?"

"Good children are always loved," put in Aunt Amelia. "Doesn't your
Uncle George love Ella?"

"She's his little girl," ventured Marian, longing for a place beside
Ella in her uncle's lap. He certainly did love Ella.

"Sit down, child," said Uncle George, "you're my brother's little girl,
aren't you, and you are Ella's cousin, aren't you?"

"I am sure she ought to be grateful," interrupted Aunt Amelia, "with
all she has done for her and such a home provided for her----"

"Oh, I am, I am," protested Marian earnestly. "I'm so glad I've got a
home I don't know what to do, and I'm gratefuller'n anything----"

"Queer way of showing your gratitude," exclaimed Aunt Amelia; "a more
undeserving child I never saw."

Uncle George bit his lip. "Now don't cry, Marian," he cautioned, as the
child's eyes filled with tears. "I have a story to read you and Ella,
so sit down and be quiet."

"Don't expect her to be quiet," Aunt Amelia persisted. "If she would
listen to stories as Ella does, I wouldn't send her to bed. You know
as well as I do that she interrupts and asks questions and gets in
a perfect fever of excitement. Ella behaves like a lady. You never
catch her squirming and fidgeting about, acting like a perfect
jumping-jack----"

"No," remarked Uncle George, opening the book in his hand, "she goes to
sleep. Don't you, pet?"

"Go to bed, Marian," Aunt Amelia commanded. "Not a word. I shall not
allow you to add sauciness to disobedience. Go!"

Uncle George frowned, put away the book and reached for his newspaper:
then, touched by the pathetic figure in the doorway he called the
child back. "That's right," he said, "be a good girl and obey your
aunt promptly. She has your interest at heart, child. Come, kiss Uncle
George good-night."

Marian was surprised because her natural tendency to kiss every one in
the family before going to bed had been severely checked and she had
been obliged to whisper her good-nights to the cat. If she sometimes
kissed its soft fur, what difference did it make, if the cat had no
objection.

"Now kiss little cousin Ella," suggested Uncle George, but Ella covered
her face, saying her mother had told her never to let Marian touch her.

Uncle George looked so angry Marian didn't know what was going to
happen. He put little Ella in her mother's lap and then taking Marian
in his arms, carried her to her room. After the child had said her
prayers and was in bed, Uncle George sat beside her and talked a long,
long while. He told her to try and be a good child and do her best in
school.

Marian dreamed that night of Mrs. Moore and the little stranger's
mother. When she awoke in the starlight she was not afraid as usual.
She thought of Uncle George and how she would try to please him in
school that he might be proud of her and love her as she loved him, and
so fell peacefully asleep.

When the man was looking over his papers the next morning before
breakfast he felt a touch upon his arm. He smiled when he saw Marian.
"I want to tell you," she said, "I'm awful sorry about the cucumbers."




CHAPTER VIII

IN THE NAME OF SANTA CLAUS


IN November Ella and her mother began making plans for Christmas. Aunt
Amelia invited seven little girls to tea one night when Uncle George
was away, and Marian ate in the kitchen with Lala. The seven were
all older than Ella and one of them, little Ruth Higgins, knowing no
better, asked for Marian. Lala overheard the answer and was indignant.

"You poor little lamb," she sputtered, upon returning to the kitchen,
"I'd run away if I were you."

"Where would I run to?" questioned Marian.

"Anywhere'd be better than here," the girl replied, "and that woman
calls herself a Christian!"

"She's a awful cross Christian," Marian admitted in a whisper, brushing
away the tears that came when she heard the peals of laughter from the
dining-room.

"I wouldn't cry if I were you," advised the girl. "You'll only spoil
your pretty eyes and it will do them good to see you cry, you poor
baby. The idea of having a party and making you stay out here!"

"It's a Club," corrected Marian, "I've heard 'em talking about it.
Dorothy Avery and Ruth Higgins belong. I've tried so hard to be good
so I could be in it. They are going to sew presents for poor children
and give them toys and everything they don't want their own selves, and
then when Christmas day comes they're going to have a sleigh ride and
take the things to the poor children. If I was good like Ella, I could
be in it. I used to be good, Lala, truly, I did."

"There, there, don't cry," begged Lala. "Look a-here! did you ever see
anybody dance the lame man's jig?"

Marian shook her head, whereupon Lala performed the act to the music
of a mournful tune she hummed, while Marian laughed until the Club was
forgotten. There was plenty of fun in the kitchen after that. In the
midst of the hilarity Ella appeared to tell Marian it was her bedtime.

"Are you ever afraid, Lala, when you wake up all alone in the night?"
asked Marian as she started up the back stairs.

"I never wake up," said Lala. "Do you, Marian?"

"Yes, and I'm lonesome without all the little girls. Sometimes I'm so
frightened I pretty nearly die when I'm all alone and it's dark."

"Little girls," echoed Lala, "what little girls? Where did you live
before you came here?"

"When I was good I lived in a big city, Lala."

"Tell me about it," the girl insisted.

"If you'll promise you won't ever tell, I will," declared Marian. "I'll
have to whisper it. I lived in a beautiful orphan's home, Lala."

"Oh!" exclaimed Lala. "Oh, you poor baby."

"Of course it's dreadful," Marian hastened to say, "but I couldn't
help it, Lala, truly I couldn't; they took me there when I was a baby
and it was a lovely place, only, it was a Home."

"Do you know anything about your father and mother?"

"Oh, I guess they're dead--my mother is anyway, and I'm 'fraid about my
father."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Lala, Aunt Amelia always says, what can you expect when you
think what my father was. I guess may be he was a stealer because
Aunt Amelia won't stop talking about the cucumbers and what could you
expect. Maybe he is in prison."

"No, your father is not in prison, Marion Lee!" Lala exclaimed.
"Listen. It was your father I heard them talking about with some
callers the other day. I'm sure of it now, because they said the man
was a great deal younger than your uncle----"

"Oh, tell me, do tell me what you know about my father?" besought
Marian, walking back into the kitchen on tiptoes.

"Oh, I don't know much," said the girl, "but he isn't in prison,
that's one sure thing. He went away to South America years ago to make
his fortune, and they know that all the men who went with him were
killed, and as your father never came back they know he must be dead."

"What was there bad about that?" questioned the small daughter.

"Nothing," was the reply, "only he and your Uncle George had a quarrel.
Your uncle didn't want him to go because he said your father had plenty
of money anyway, and it all came out as he said it would."

At that moment, Ella returned. Seeing Marian, she forgot that she was
after a drink of water. "Oh, Marian Lee!" she exclaimed. "I'm going
straight back and tell mamma you didn't go to bed when I told you to.
You'll be sorry."

Marian, the guilty, flew up the back stairs, expecting swift
punishment. She was sure she deserved it, and what would Uncle George
say? It was so hard to be good. Retribution was left to Santa Claus.
How could a disobedient, ungrateful child expect to be remembered by
that friend of good children? How could Marian hope for a single gift?
Aunt Amelia didn't know. Nevertheless the little girl pinned her faith
to Santa Claus. He had never forgotten her nor the two hundred waifs at
the Home. Teddy Daniels once made a face at the superintendent the very
day before Christmas, yet Santa Claus gave him a drum.

Marian wasn't the least surprised Christmas morning when she found her
stockings hanging by the sitting-room grate filled to the brim, exactly
as Ella's were. She was delighted beyond expression.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Both my stockings are full of things for
me. Oh, see the packages! Oh, I am so happy! Just only look at the
presents!" Uncle George left the room and Marian sat upon the rug to
examine her treasures.

"Why don't you look in your stockings, Ella?" she suggested. "Let's
undo our presents together."

"No, I'd rather wait and see what you'll say when you know what you've
got!" Ella replied. "Mamma and I know something."

"Hush!" cautioned Aunt Amelia. "Let's see what Santa Claus has brought
Marian. She knows whether she's been a deserving, grateful child or
not."

Why would Aunt Amelia remind one of disagreeable things on Christmas
morning? Marian's chin quivered before she took a thing from her
stocking, whereupon Aunt Amelia smiled. In the meantime, Ella, becoming
impatient, emptied one of her stockings in her mother's lap and began a
series of squeals as toys, games and dolls tumbled out.

"Oh, what fun!" cried Marian, laughing and clapping her hands as she
witnessed Ella's delight. A pitiful expression stole over her face as
she turned to her own stockings. How she longed for a mother to share
her joy. How she wished Aunt Amelia would smile kindly and be pleased
with her gifts. The child quickly removed the paper from a round
package.

"I've got a ball," she ventured. "I'll let you play with it, Ella."

"Got one of my own," said Ella, exhibiting a big rubber ball.

An exclamation of dismay burst from Marian's lips. "Why, why--it's a
potato!" she cried.

"What did you expect?" inquired Aunt Amelia in chilling tones.

"I guess that was just for a joke." The little girl smiled cheerfully
as she said it, at the same time untying a box wrapped in tissue paper.
Potatoes again. Marian shut her lips tight together and tried another
package. More potatoes. Still she kept the tears back and reached for
a long bundle. Removing the paper she found switches. Aunt Amelia
and Ella watched silently as Marian, her eyes blazing and her cheeks
growing a deeper red every second, emptied the stocking in which there
was nothing but potatoes. Then the child rose, straightened her small
figure to its full height and made this statement:

"That wasn't never Santa Claus that did that!"

"Look in the other stocking," Ella advised, "there are real presents in
that one. I guess you will be a good girl now, won't you, Marian? Take
the other stocking down, quick."

"No," declared Marian, "I don't want any more potatoes. Nobody loves me
and I don't care if they don't." Then she broke down and cried so hard,
Ella cried too.

"What's all the trouble?" asked Uncle George, entering the room at that
moment.

"Marian is making a scene and distressing both Ella and me," explained
Aunt Amelia. "She has been highly impertinent and ungrateful. Ella, you
may have the other stocking yourself."

"But I don't want it," sobbed Ella. "I want Marian to have it."

"Then we'll take it to the poor children this afternoon," said her
mother. "They'll be glad to get it. Marian, don't drop what's in your
apron. Now go to your room and think over how you've spoiled the peace
of a family on Christmas morning. I'll bring your breakfast to you
myself."

"I don't want any breakfast," sobbed Marian, walking away with her
apron full of potatoes.

"Come back," called Uncle George. "You tell your aunt you are sorry you
were so naughty, and you may come to breakfast with us. It's Christmas
morning, child, why can't you behave?"

"I wasn't naughty," sobbed Marian. "I----"

"Not another word," put in Aunt Amelia. "Go to your room, stubborn,
bad child. I can't have such an example continually before my little
Ella. We'll have to put her in a reform school, George, if she doesn't
improve."

This remark fell upon unheeding ears so far as Marian was concerned.
The minute the door of her little room closed behind her she dropped
the potatoes upon the floor and throwing herself beside them cried as
if her heart would break.

"Oh, Nanna, Nanna, I want you," she sobbed. "Oh, where are you, oh, my
Mrs. Moore?"




CHAPTER IX

AT THE RICH MAN'S TABLE


TRUE to her word, Aunt Amelia carried Marian's breakfast to her room.
But for the interference of Uncle George his little niece would have
been given bread and water; it was all an impertinent child deserved.
Uncle George, however, insisted that the One who was born on Christmas
Day was a friend to sinners great and small. Out of respect to His
memory, Marian should have her breakfast. Lala offered to take the tray
up-stairs when it was ready, but Aunt Amelia said it was her duty to
take it herself: so there was no one to speak a word of comfort to the
little black sheep outside the fold.

It had been a dark, cloudy morning, but curiously enough, the moment
the door closed behind Aunt Amelia, the sun came out bright and warm,
and shone straight through Marian's window. The child raised her head,
wiped her eyes and finally sat up. She wouldn't eat any breakfast of
course, how could she? No one loved her and what was the use of eating?
The tray looked tempting though and the breakfast smelled good. The big
orange seemed rolling toward her and Uncle George must have poured the
cream on her oatmeal. No one else would have given her so much. The
omelet was steaming, and even Lala never made finer looking rolls.

Marian moved a little nearer and a little nearer to the tray until
the next thing she knew she was sitting in a chair, eating breakfast.
Everything tasted good, and in a little while Marian felt better. Out
of doors, the icy trees sparkled in the sunshine and all the world
looked clean and new. Oh, how the little girl longed for a mother that
Christmas morning. Some one who would love her and say "Dear little
Marian," as Nanna once did.

Thinking of Mrs. Moore brought back to the child's memory that last
day in the Home. Mrs. Moore had said, "Be brave, be good and never
forget the Father in heaven." Marian had not been brave nor good; and
she had forgotten the Father in heaven. Suddenly the child looked
around the room, under the bed everywhere. She was certainly alone. It
seemed strange to say one's prayers in the daytime, but Marian folded
her hands and kneeling in the flood of sunshine beneath the window,
confessed her sins. She felt like a new born soul after that. The
despairing, rebellious little Marian was gone, and in her place was a
child at peace with herself and the world. Without putting it in words,
Marian forgave Aunt Amelia: more than that, she felt positively tender
towards her. She would tell her she was sorry for her impertinence and
promise to be a good child. It would be so easy to do right. She would
set Ella a good example. Not for anything would Marian ever again do
what was wrong. In time Uncle George and Aunt Amelia would love her
dearly.

Marian smiled thoughtfully as she gazed down the straight and perfect
path her little feet would travel from thenceforth forevermore. The
child's meditations were interrupted by a remembrance of the potatoes.
There they were, her Christmas presents, trying to hide under the bed,
under the chairs, beneath the bureau. She stared at them but a moment
when a happy smile broke over her face.

Marian was a saint no longer; only a little girl about to play a new
game.

"Why, it's a circus!" she exclaimed, and straightway seizing the
potatoes and breaking the switches into little sticks, she transformed
the unwelcome gift into a circus parade. The elephant came first. His
trunk was a trifle too stiff as the switches were not limber. The camel
came next and if his humps were not exactly in the right place, he was
all the more of a curiosity. Then followed the giraffe with sloping
back and no head worth mentioning because there was nothing to stick on
the piece of switch that formed his long neck. Marian did wish she had
a bit of gum to use for a head. The giraffe would look more finished.
The lion and the tiger were perfect. Marian could almost hear them
roar. Nobody could have found any fault with the kangaroo except that
he would fall on his front feet. The hippopotamus was a sight worth
going to see. So was the rhinoceros. The zebras almost ran away, they
were so natural.

Marian searched eagerly for more potatoes. A peck would have been none
too many. "I'll have to play the rest of the animals are in cages," she
said with a sigh. "Too bad I didn't get more potatoes. Wish I had the
other stocking."

When Marian was tired of circus, she played concert. Bingen on the
Rhine came in for its share of attention, but school songs were just as
good and had ready-made tunes.

Lala in the kitchen, heard the operatic singing and laughed. Aunt
Amelia caught a few strains, frowned and closed the hall doors. Uncle
George smiled behind his newspaper: but Ella, tired of her toys, pouted
and said she wished she could ever have any fun. Marian always had a
good time. Mrs. St. Claire reminded her of the sleigh ride with the
seven little girls in the afternoon and Ella managed to get through the
morning somehow, even if it was dull and Christmas joy was nowhere in
the house except in the little room off the back hall up-stairs.

At one o'clock Lala was sent to tell Marian she might come down to
dinner if she would apologize to Aunt Amelia for her impertinence.
Lala was forbidden to say more, but nobody thought to caution her not
to laugh, and what did Lala do when she saw Marian playing the piano
beside the circus parade, but laugh until the tears ran down her
cheeks. Worst of all she waited on table with a broad smile on her
face that made Aunt Amelia quite as uncomfortable as the mention of a
pelican. Nor was it possible for Aunt Amelia to understand how a child
who had been in disgrace all the forenoon, could be cheerful and ready
to laugh on the slightest provocation. She thought it poor taste.

After dinner Ella thrust a repentant looking stocking in Marian's hand.
"Papa says the things are yours and you must have them," she explained.

"What makes the stocking look so floppy?" asked Marian.

"Because," Ella went on, "papa made me take all the potatoes out and
there wasn't much left. You've got a handkerchief in the stocking from
me and one from mamma, and----"

"Please don't tell me," protested Marian. "I want to be s'prised."

"Like the selfish child you are," put in Aunt Amelia, "unwilling to
give your cousin a bit of pleasure."

"And a box of dominoes from papa and a doll's tea set Lala gave you,"
finished Ella.

"She'll expect a doll next," observed Aunt Amelia.

"I did think Santa Claus would give me one," admitted the child, "but
I had rather have the beautiful tea set. Help me set the table on this
chair, Ella, and we'll play Christmas dinner. I'll let you pour the tea
and----"

"Ella has no time to play," her mother interrupted. "Come, little
one, help mamma finish packing the baskets of presents for the poor
children."

"But I had rather play with Marian's tea set," pouted Ella.

"You have one of your own, dearest."

"It isn't as nice as Marian's, though, and I want to stay here and
play."

"Now you see, George," and Mrs. St. Claire turned to her husband, "now
you see why I cannot allow these children to play together. You can see
for yourself what an influence Marian has over our little Ella. Come,
darling, have you forgotten the sleigh ride? It is time to get ready."

"Me too?" questioned Marian, springing to her feet, "shall I get ready?"

The child knew her mistake in less than a minute, but forgetting the
uselessness of protest, she begged so earnestly to be taken with
the children Aunt Amelia called her saucy, and as a punishment, the
Christmas gifts, tea set and all, were put on a high shelf out of sight.

Marian was allowed to stand in the parlor by the window to see the
sleigh-load of noisy children drive away. When they were gone, the
parlor seemed bigger than usual and strangely quiet. Uncle George,
with a frown on his face, was reading in the sitting-room. He didn't
look talkative and the clock ticked loud. Marian turned again to the
parlor window. Across the street was the rich man's house, and in the
front window of the rich man's house was a poor little girl looking
out--a sad little girl with big eyes and a pale face. Marian waved her
hand and the little girl waved hers--such a tiny, white hand. A new
idea flashed into Marian's mind. She had often seen the little girl
across the way and wondered why she never played with Ella. At last she
thought she knew. The rich man's wife probably went to a hospital after
the little girl, and took her home to get well just as Janey Clark was
taken home, only Janey was never thin and delicate and Janey never
stared quietly at everything as the little girl did who lived in the
rich man's house.

Marian wondered why Aunt Amelia didn't leave her some of the presents
in the baskets. Perhaps nobody loved the little girl: maybe her father
and mother were dead and Santa Claus didn't know where to find her.
Marian wished she had something to take to the poor thing. She would
have given away her tea set that minute had it been within reach.
Just then a long-legged horse went by, a horse that looked so queer
it reminded Marian of her potato menagerie. The child smiled at the
thought. Perhaps the little girl in the rich man's house never saw a
potato animal and would like to see one. Perhaps she would like two or
three for a Christmas present. Why not? It was all Marian had to give
and the animals were funny enough to make any poor little girl laugh.
Up-stairs Marian flew, returning with the elephant, the rhinoceros, the
hippopotamus and two zebras packed in a pasteboard box.

"Please, Uncle George," she asked, "may I go and visit the poor little
girl that lives in the rich man's house? I want to say 'Wish you a
merry Christmas' to her, and----"

"Run along, child," interrupted Uncle George, the frown smoothing
out as he spoke, "go where you will and have a good time if it is
possible--bless your sunny face."

Uncle George had heard of the rich man's house and he smiled a broad
smile of amusement as he watched Marian climb the steps and ring the
bell. "What next?" he inquired as the door closed behind the child. In
a short time he knew "What next." One of the rich man's servants came
over with a note from the neighbor's wife, begging Uncle George to
allow Marian to stay and help them enjoy their Christmas dinner at six.
The permission was gladly given and at eight o'clock Marian came home
hugging an immense wax doll and fairly bubbling over with excitement.

"I never had such a good time at the table in my life," she began, "as
I did at the rich man's house. They asked me to talk, just think of
it--asked me to, and I did and they did and we all laughed. And the
poor little girl isn't poor, only just sick and she belongs to the
folks. The rich man is her father and her name is Dolly Russel and she
was gladder to see me than she ever was to see anybody in her life and
she wants me to come again, and----"

"And I suppose you told all you knew," snapped Aunt Amelia.

"Yes, most, 'specially at the table," admitted the child.




CHAPTER X

A GAME OF SLICED BIRDS


MARIAN was so happy with her doll and teaset the following day she was
blind and deaf to all that happened in the house outside her little
room. She didn't know that Mrs. Russel made her first call upon Aunt
Amelia in the afternoon, nor that company was expected in the evening.
Ella's mysterious airs were lost upon her. The child was accordingly
surprised when she met the company at breakfast.

Aunt Hester, Mrs. St. Claire's younger sister, was a pleasant surprise
because she was good-looking and agreeable. She returned Marian's smile
of greeting with interest. Marian hoped she had found a friend and
hovered near the welcome stranger until sent to her room. During the
rest of the week she and Aunt Hester exchanged smiles when they met at
the table, and to win a few kind words from her became Marian's dream.
New Year's Day brought an opportunity. Mrs. Russel sent a box of sliced
birds to Marian and her cousin, and as the gift came while the family
were at breakfast, Marian knew all about it. At last she and Ella owned
something in common and might perhaps be allowed to play together. She
could hardly wait to finish her breakfast.

"What are sliced birds and how do you play with them?" she asked Aunt
Hester, who carried the box into the sitting-room.

"Well," began Aunt Hester, "can you read, Marian?"

"Yes, auntie, I can read pretty near anything I try to, but I can't
write very good, not a bit good. Do you have to write in sliced birds?"

"No," was the laughing reply, "if you can spell a little that is all
that is necessary. Here is a paper with a list of birds on it we can
put together. Now here is the word jay. A picture of a jay is cut in
three pieces, on one piece is 'J,' on another is 'A' and on the third
is 'Y.' Now hunt for 'J.'"

"Ella knows her letters," Marian suggested. "Come, Ella, hunt for 'J,'
that piece would have a blue jay's head on it, I guess." Marian waited
until Ella found the letter and together they finished the blue jay.
Both children were delighted with the result.

"Oh, what fun!" cried Marian. "We'll make all the birds, Ella. I'll
read a name and tell you what letters to hunt for."

A shadow fell across the bright scene, caused by the entrance of Aunt
Amelia. "Go over there and sit down," she said to Marian. "I came in to
help Hester divide the game."

"Divide the game!" echoed both children.

"Oh, don't do it, please don't," besought Marian, "we want to play with
all the birds together."

"It seems a pity," began Aunt Hester, but she gathered Ella in her arms
and helped form all the birds in two straight lines upon the floor as
her sister desired.

Marian watched with eager interest. She hoped when the birds were
divided a few of the pretty ones might be given to her. If she had her
choice she couldn't tell whether she would take the peacock or the
bird of paradise--they were both gorgeous. The scarlet tanager and the
red-headed woodpecker were beautiful but of course it wasn't fair to
wish for all the brightest birds. It was Aunt Hester who suggested a
way to divide the game.

"Let them take turns choosing," she said. "It seems to me that will be
perfectly fair. The children might draw cuts for first choice."

At that, Marian saw her opportunity. "Ella may be the first chooser,"
she declared, and was rewarded by a smile from Aunt Hester. Which would
Ella take? the bird of paradise or the peacock? Either would please
Marian, so it really made no difference which was left. Ella wanted
them both and said so.

"Hush," whispered her mother, "if you keep still Marian won't know
which birds are the prettiest. Aunt Hester and I will help you choose."

"I guess I'll take that," Ella decided, pointing towards the bird of
paradise.

Marian was about to choose the peacock when a whispered word from Aunt
Hester caught her ear.

"I hope, Ella dear, that she won't take the peacock."

Marian hesitated a moment. She wanted the peacock with its gay,
spreading tail, but if Aunt Hester wished Ella to have it perhaps she
would love whoever helped her get it. "I'll take the turkey," said the
child, whereupon Ella gave a shout.

"She don't know much, she took an old brown turkey. I'll have the
peacock and I want the red bird and the redhead."

Aunt Amelia laughed. "One at a time, you dear, impulsive child," said
she, but Aunt Hester smiled across at Marian. "Your turn," she said.

"I'll take the owl," Marian quietly replied.

"Oh, ho! an old owl!" laughed Ella, clapping her hands for joy. "Now
I'll have the redhead! goody! And next time----"

"Hush," warned her mother. "You mustn't let Marian know what you want
or she'll take it."

"I choose the wren," came in low tones from Marian.

"My turn," Ella called. "Give me the redhead."

"Choose the flicker next," advised her mother, so Marian, still hoping
to be loved, chose the robin.

Aunt Hester smiled again, but the smile was for Ella. "Take the parrot
next," she whispered, so Marian chose the crow.

"Now, Ella, darling," whispered her mother, "the oriole, after Marian
has her turn," and Marian, taking the hint, motioned for the jay.

It was over at last and Marian was told to go to her room. As she was
leaving, Aunt Hester gave Ella a rapturous hug and said, "Our baby has
all the prettiest birds." Aunt Hester didn't know Marian heard the
remark until she saw the tears that could not be kept back, wetting the
rosy cheeks. "Oh, you poor young one!" she exclaimed, and but for the
presence of Aunt Amelia, she would have taken the sad little mortal in
her arms.

"She's crying 'cause her birds are all homely," said Ella.

"Of course, she always wants the best," remarked Mrs. St. Claire, but
Aunt Hester and Ella both gazed after the retreating figure of little
Marian, with conscience-stricken faces. They had been three against
one, and that one didn't know enough to take the choicest birds when
she had the chance. They hadn't played fair.

Marian, blinded by tears, stumbled over a rug at the door of her
room and the sliced birds slipped almost unheeded from her apron.
The nearest seat was the box she called her piano stool. She dropped
upon it and buried her face in her arms on the piano. The sheet music
tumbled forward upon her head, perhaps fearing it might be but an old
almanac forever after. Bitter thoughts filled the little soul. Why
would no one love her? Why did the sound of her voice annoy every one
so she feared to speak? What was the trouble? Was she so bad or so
homely that no one might love her? She had tried to be good and tried
to do right, but what difference had it made? Aunt Hester thought her
stupid because she allowed Ella to take what birds she would. Surely
Aunt Hester was the stupid one.

It was impossible for Marian to feel miserable long at a time. In a
few minutes she sat up and straightened her sheet music, whereupon the
almanac became a hymn-book. She turned the leaves slowly as did the
young lady who played the organ prayer-meeting nights. Then, addressing
the wax doll and the bed posts she announced in solemn tones, "We'll
sing nineteen verses of number 'leventy 'leven."

"Number 'leventy 'leven" happened to be "Come Ye Disconsolate," a
hymn Marian was familiar with, as it was Aunt Amelia's favorite. The
tune began dismally enough, but the disconsolate one took courage
on the third line and sang out triumphantly at last, with a great
flourish upon the piano, "'Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot
heal.'" "Twenty Froggies Went to School" came next, and Marian was
herself once more, which is to say, she became at a moment's notice,
a famous musician, a school-teacher, a princess, a queen or whatever
the occasion required, while the little room was easily changed into
anything from the Desert of Sahara to a palace.

The extent of Marian's knowledge was the only limit to the games
she played. Pictures in the family Bible had given her many an hour
of entertainment in the little room, thanks to the fact that Uncle
George allowed Marian to look at the pictures on an occasional Sunday
afternoon. The doll almost broke her nose the day before playing
"Rebecca at the Well." The "Marriage at Cana" was a safer game for a
wax doll that could not stand, especially as the doll made a beautiful
bride. Turning from her piano, Marian saw something that made her
laugh. The robin's head and the duck's feet had fallen one above the
other.

"Poor robin," she said, "I guess you would rather have your own feet.
R-o-b-i-n, I know how to spell you, and I'll put you on your own feet
and I'll give the duck his own head so he can quack." When the robin
was put together it looked like an old friend. "You're nicer than the
bird of paradise, after all," declared Marian, "because I know you so
well. You and I used to be chums because I didn't have any little
girls to play with."

It was something of a puzzle to put all of the birds together, but
when the work was finished Marian was pleased. "You're all so nice and
common looking," she said. "I never saw the owl bird, but we used to
hear him in the woods at night, didn't we, blue jay? He used to go,
'Who--who--whoo--whoo!' We used to see you, old black crow, you always
said 'Caw--caw--caw,' and you dear little wren, how I would like to
hear you sing once more. Where are you all now? Somewhere way down
South, because our teacher says so and when the snow is gone, you'll
come flying back.

"Oh, now we'll play something. It is autumn over here on the rug, the
rug's the orchard, and the leaves are falling and all the flowers are
fading and winter is coming. You see that sunshiny spot on the floor
over there under the windows, birdies? Well, that is down South where
you are going. I don't remember who goes first but I guess the little
wren better fly away now, and we'll have lots of fun." One by one the
birds went south, owl and all, and one by one they flew back to the
orchard in the spring-time, where the wax doll welcomed them, listened
to their songs and scattered strings about for them to use in building
their nests.

It was a pleasant game and Marian was called to the dining-room before
she thought of putting the birds away.

"I wonder if I didn't get the best half of the game after all," she
suggested to the wax doll as she threw it a parting kiss.

Had Marian known that the bird of paradise, the peacock and the other
bright ones were laid upon a shelf as birds of no consequence and that
Ella had complained all the forenoon of having nothing to do, she would
have understood why Aunt Hester not only greeted her with a smile, but
said at the same time, "You dear, happy child."

It was enough that Aunt Hester said it and smiled, without puzzling for
a reason. Surely Marian had chosen the better half of the game when
such loving tones were meant for her. It was wonderful.




CHAPTER XI

THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR


A YEAR passed away, in which time Marian was kept more and more outside
of the family and more and more apart from all ordinary pleasures of
childhood, but in spite of everything she was happy, ever hoping to win
the approval of her aunt and uncle.

Going to school was a never-failing joy because at noon-times and
recess there were girls and boys to play with, and the long walks to
and from school were always a delight to a child who was interested in
everything from a blade of grass to the clouds.

Ella attended a private school near home and was scarcely allowed to
speak to Marian. She had many playmates, but all of them put together
were not half so attractive from her point of view as the little cousin
who played alone. One winter morning Ella told Marian behind the
dining-room door that her grandmother and Uncle Robert were coming to
stay all the spring-time and that Uncle Robert was a little boy only
a few years older than Marian. Ella was delighted, but Marian wished
Uncle Robert was a girl. She had reason for the wish before summer.

Marian was prejudiced against boys for as much as a year after Ella's
uncle went away. He believed it was his privilege to tease little
girls, though in all his life he never had such a chance to torment
any one as he had that spring. It was useless to play tricks on
Ella, because she ran crying to her mother and that made trouble for
Robert: but Marian could appeal to no one and teasing her was safe
and interesting. To hold her doll by the hair while Marian begged and
screamed, was daily amusement until the child learned to leave the doll
in her room. To hide her few books was another pleasure and to frighten
her on every possible occasion until her eyes seemed fairly popping out
of her head, was a victory.

Marian was glad to have some one to play with if that some one was a
tyrant and often before her tears were dry, she was ready to forgive
Robert for teasing her and to join in any game he proposed. One day
he suggested something that shocked Marian. He asked her to steal
sugar. He didn't say steal, he said "Hook," and at first Marian didn't
understand. Robert told her to sneak into the pantry after Lala was
through work in the afternoon, take a lump of sugar from the barrel and
give it to him. She wouldn't listen in the beginning, but by dint of
persuasion and threats, Robert succeeded in getting his lump of sugar:
not only one, but many, for stealing sugar became easier as the days
went by and no one caught the small culprit.

Robert's ambition was to be a railroad engineer, and soon after the
sugar stealing began, he made an engine of boxes and barrels in the
locust grove. When it was finished and in running order, he allowed
Marian to be his fireman. At first the child thought it was fun,
but when she had shoveled air with a stick for five minutes without
stopping, while Robert rang the bell, blew the whistle and ran the
engine, she threw down her shovel. "It's my turn to be engineer now,"
she declared.

"Girls don't know enough to run engines," was the reply.

"I'm not a girl," protested Marian, "I'm a fireman."

"Then tend to your job, why don't you?" was the retort. "I wouldn't
ring the bell for my fireman if I didn't think he was a good one. Come,
coal up, tend to business."

Somewhat flattered, the fireman smiled, shoveled coal until his arms
ached, and then rebelled. "I say," she declared, "you've got to let me
be engineer now! I won't be fireman another minute!"

"Oh, you won't?" taunted the engineer. "We'll see about that! Of course
you needn't shovel coal for me if you don't want to, but you had better
make up your mind pretty quick, because if you won't be my fireman,
I'll go and tell my sister Amelia that you steal sugar!"

Marian was too stunned for words until Robert laughed. Then her face
grew scarlet, and her eyes had a look in them the boy had never seen
before.

"You dare not tell!" she screamed, leaning towards Robert, anger and
defiance in every line of her slight figure. "I say you dare not!"

"I wonder why?" sniffed the boy.

"You know why; you told me to take the sugar, and I got it for you and
I never tasted a bit of it. You were such an old pig you wouldn't give
me back a crumb--old rhinoceros--hippopotamus--I'd call you an elephant
too, only elephants are so much nicer'n you."

Again the boy laughed. "You hooked the sugar, didn't you?" he demanded.

"What if I did, didn't I do it 'cause you told me to, and didn't you
eat it, you old gorilla?"

"What if I did, Miss Marian Spitfire? I'll say it's one of your lies,
and no one will believe what you say. You know you can't look my sister
in the face and tell her you didn't take the sugar, but I can stand up
and cross my heart and hope to die if I ever saw any sugar, and they'll
believe me and they won't believe you. Now will you shovel coal?
Toot-toot-toot--chew-chew-chew--ding-a-ling-a-ling--engine's going to
start! Ha, ha, ha!"

"You mean thing, you horrid boy! I hate you!" sputtered Marian, but she
shoveled coal. In fact the child shoveled coal the rest of the spring
whenever Robert chose to play engine, until the day his taunts proved
too much and she kicked his engine to pieces, threatening to "give it
to him," if he didn't keep out of the way.

"Now tell," she screamed from the midst of the wreck, "tell anything
you're a mind to, I don't care what you do."

Robert walked away whistling "Yankee Doodle." "I'm tired of playing
engine," he called over his shoulder, "and I'm much obliged to you
for saving me the trouble of taking it to pieces. I don't wonder
nobody likes you. My sister Amelia knows what she's talking about when
she says you've got the worst temper ever was! I bet you'll die in
prison----"

"You'll die before you get to prison if you don't get out of my sight,"
was the retort.

Robert walked away so fast Marian was certain he was going to tell
about the sugar and she waited, defiantly at first, then tremblingly.
What would become of her? What would they do? For reasons best known to
himself, Robert didn't mention sugar, and after a few days of suspense,
Marian breathed easier, although she wasn't thoroughly comfortable
until Robert and his mother were on their way home.

A few weeks later Aunt Amelia made a jar of cookies for Ella's birthday
party. She made them herself and put them on a low shelf in the pantry.
Marian asked for a cookie and was refused. She didn't expect to get
it. The more she thought of the cookies, the more she wanted one. She
remembered the sugar. No one but Robert knew about that sugar, and if
she helped herself to a cooky that would be her own secret. Marian took
a cooky and ate it back of the orchard. Her old friends, the chipping
sparrows, flew down for the crumbs that fell at her feet. The little
birds were surprised when Marian frightened them away. She had been so
kind to them they had lost all fear of her.

The second cooky Marian took she ate in the locust grove where she was
much annoyed by the curiosity of a chipmunk. He asked her questions
with his head on one side and his hand on his heart. His chatter made
her angry. What was it to him if she happened to be eating a cooky? She
did wish folks would mind their own business. From that day, Marian
grew reckless. She carried away cookies two or three at a time and
talked back to the birds and the squirrels and all the inhabitants of
the orchard and the locust grove who were not polite enough to hide
their inquisitiveness.

For once in her life, Marian had all the cookies she wished, although
they agreed with neither her stomach nor her conscience. She didn't
feel well and she was cross and unhappy. At last Marian knew that the
day of reckoning was near at hand. She could almost touch the bottom
of the cooky jar when she realized that the cookies had been made for
Ella's party and had not been used upon the table. No one had lifted
the cover of the jar but herself since the day they were baked. It
was a frightful thought. There was no more peace for Marian. Awake or
dreaming, the cookies were ever before her. In school and at home they
haunted her. What should she do, what could she do?

Quietly the child went about the house. She no longer sang nor laughed.
Uncle George wondered, Aunt Amelia rejoiced. She thought Marian's usual
high spirits unbecoming a child dependent upon charity, as Marian had
often heard her remark.

"She may be working too hard in school," suggested Uncle George.

"Whatever is the cause she has behaved so well lately, I shall allow
her in the sitting-room with the children when Ella has her party,"
conceded Aunt Amelia.

Even a shadow of kindness touched Marian's heart. Oh, why had she done
wrong? From the depths of her soul, the child repented. Why had she
been called bad in the days when she tried to be good, and at last when
she was so bad, why would Aunt Amelia declare that there was a great
improvement in her behavior, and why would Uncle George speak to her
almost as pleasantly as he did to Ella? If only she had remembered
the words of Mrs. Moore before it was too late; to "Be good and to do
right." Mrs. Moore also said, "Be brave." It would be brave to go to
Aunt Amelia and tell her the truth about the cookies. Marian had not
been good, she had not done right and she could not be brave.

Many and many a time the child studied the grim face of Aunt Amelia,
repeating over and over to herself "Be brave." It seemed to Marian
that if she attempted telling Aunt Amelia of her sin, she would die on
the spot, choke to death, perhaps, trying to get the words out. Her
throat closed tight together at the very thought. It might, under some
circumstances, be possible to tell Uncle George, although to confess
was to be forever an outcast. Neither Uncle George nor Aunt Amelia
would ever love her, nor would she ever be allowed to play with Ella.
All the golden texts Marian had ever learned, haunted her memory. "The
way of the transgressor is hard." "Be sure your sin will find you out."
"Enter not into the path of the wicked." "Evil pursueth sinners."
There were many others, so many, the child was sorry she had ever gone
to Sunday-school.

The day of the party was bright and beautiful. All the little girls
came who were invited, Ruth Higgins, Dorothy Avery and Dolly Russel
among the number. Marian went into the sitting-room with drooping head
and misery in her soul, until joining in the games and merriment,
she forgot the cookies and had a good time. Not a thought of trouble
disturbed her pleasure even though she heard Lala setting the table in
the dining-room.

Her conscience awoke only when Aunt Amelia appeared to summon her into
the kitchen. Every bit of color left the child's face. She could hear
nothing clearly because of the ringing in her ears. As she followed
Aunt Amelia through the dining-room the floor seemed rising up at every
step and the candles on the birthday cake danced before her eyes. On
the table in the kitchen was the empty cooky jar, the eloquent witness
of her guilt. On a rosebud plate beside it were less than a dozen
cookies. Marian gazed stupidly at the jar and at the plate of cookies.

"What have you to say for yourself, Marian Lee?" Aunt Amelia's voice
sounded far away. There were such lumps in Marian's throat she couldn't
speak.

"Answer me," commanded Aunt Amelia, "what have you to say?"

Marian's tongue felt paralyzed. Perhaps it was unwilling to do its
owner's bidding. It was certainly hard for that truthful little tongue
to say the one word "Nothing." Aunt Amelia's face was terrible. "Do you
mean to tell me that you haven't touched those cookies?"

There was no retreat. Marian nodded her head.

"Speak!" continued Aunt Amelia, "say yes or no? Do you dare to tell me
that you didn't take the cookies?"

It was all Marian did dare to do and her reply was "Yes."

Aunt Amelia raised a long forefinger as she said, "Don't stand there
and lie, Marian Lee, you took those cookies."

"I did not." Lala grew pale when she heard that answer and saw the
terrified eyes of the child.

"Own up," she whispered as she passed the trembling sinner on her way
to the dining-room.

Marian looked beseechingly at Aunt Amelia, but her face was hard
and pitiless. The child dared not "Be brave." "I did not touch the
cookies," she repeated again and again.

"How do you account for the disappearance of a whole jar of cookies,
Marian, if you didn't eat them?" asked Uncle George upon his arrival.

Marian had not thought of accounting for the loss of the cookies, but
she took a deep breath and made a suggestion. "I s'pose a hungry tramp
took 'em."

The reply wasn't satisfactory. Uncle George frowned and Aunt Amelia
smiled. The smile wasn't the kind she was in the habit of bestowing
upon Ella. It was the sort that froze the blood in Marian's veins. She
sank in a miserable little heap upon the floor and cried and cried.

"Reform school is the place for children who steal and lie," said Aunt
Amelia.

Uncle George tried to make the child confess, but his efforts were
vain. She would not. Threats were powerless. The more frightened Marian
became the more vehemently she denied her guilt. Although it was Ella's
birthday, and shouts of laughter could be heard from the sitting-room,
Aunt Amelia produced a certain strap Marian was familiar with through
past experience. "Spare the rod, spoil the child," was Mrs. St.
Claire's favorite motto so far as her husband's small relative was
concerned.

"You can whip me till I die," sobbed Marian when she saw the strap,
"but I can't say I took the cookies, because I didn't. How can I say I
did, when I didn't?" Nor could Aunt Amelia nor Uncle George compel the
child to say anything different.

"You can whip me till I die," she insisted over and over, "but I can't
say I took those cookies," and they finally believed her.

"Go to bed," commanded Aunt Amelia. "I don't want to see a child who
could die easier than she could tell the truth. Go!"

A smothered sob caught Marian's ear. Lala was crying; and because Lala
cried and was soon after found in Marian's room trying to quiet her,
she was sent away the next day. Tilly was her successor. Before she had
been in the house a week, she openly befriended Marian. "Poor little
thing," she said, "if you had stolen a barrel of cookies from a baker
you wouldn't have deserved half of the punishment you get. There isn't
anything left they can do to you, is there?"

"Yes, they can send me to the reform school," was the reply, "and, oh,
dear, I'm afraid to go. What will become of me?"

"If I were you," Tilly advised, "and I took the cookies, I would own
up. They can't any more than kill you and I guess they'll do that
anyway."

Marian shook her head. The time to own up was long passed. She stayed
in her room and ate bread and water a week without protest. On
Sunday afternoon she listened to the story of Ananias and Sapphira
with teeth and fists tightly closed. She heard long speeches on the
fearful consequences of stealing and lying, without a word. Only when
questioned would she say in low spiritless tones, "I did not touch the
cookies."

When it was all over, and Aunt Amelia and Uncle George gave up trying
to wring a confession from her and the child was simply in disgrace,
her own conscience began its work. It gave her no peace. Marian had
said her prayers every night as Mrs. Moore had taught her when she was
a baby; but she had repeated them quickly with her back turned towards
heaven and had made no mention of cookies. At last, troubled by her
conscience, and not knowing where to turn for comfort, Marian knelt by
her bedside one night and tried an experiment.

"O Lord," she began, "I am not going to lie to you about the cookies.
Thou knowest I took them. That is why I haven't said any made up
prayers for so long. I knew Thou knewest how wicked I am and I know
what the Bible says about lying lips. I am afraid of Aunt Amelia or I
would own up. She says I won't go to heaven when I die because I am
too bad to live there. Now, O Lord, I know I could be good in heaven,
but it has been hard work on earth, and after I took the cookies I got
wickeder and wickeder, but honest and truth I'll never do anything
wrong again and I'll never tell another lie. Thou knowest I could be
good in heaven. Please, O Lord, forgive me and take me straight up to
heaven when I die. Amen."

That prayer didn't help Marian a bit. She could scarcely get off her
knees when she had said "Amen." Her head seemed bowed down beneath a
weight of cookies.

"You know what you must do," insisted her conscience, "you must go to
your Uncle George and your Aunt Amelia first, first, I say."

"But I can't do that, and I'm so unhappy," sobbed Marian, but her
conscience was pitiless. It would allow no compromise. "Oh, if I could
see Nanna," whispered Marian as she crept into bed. No one had ever
kissed her good-night but once since she had left the Home, and now, no
one ever would again. The Father in heaven had turned away His face.
Marian cried herself to sleep as she had many a night before.

In the middle of the night she awoke and sat up in bed, cold and
trembling. Thunder was rolling through the sky and an occasional flash
of lightning made the little room bright one minute and inky black the
next. Perhaps the end of the world was coming when the graves would
give up their dead and the terrible Judge would descend to deal with
the wicked. A crash of thunder shook the house. Marian dived beneath
the blankets, but a horrible thought caused her to sit bolt upright
again. Aunt Amelia had told her that sinners, on the last day, would
call for the rocks and mountains to fall upon them. Perhaps hiding
beneath blankets meant the same thing. Another crash came and a
blinding flash of lightning. Then another and another. Springing from
her bed, Marian ran down the hall to Mrs. St. Claire's room. The door
was closed but the room was lighted.

"Oh, let me come in," she cried, knocking frantically at the door and
keeping her eye upon the crack of light at the bottom.

The response was immediate. Aunt Amelia stepped into the hall and
closed the door behind her. "Go back to your room," she said, "and
don't you dare leave it again. I should think you would expect the
lightning to strike you!"

Marian shrank back as a flash of lightning illumined the hall. For one
moment she saw Aunt Amelia, tall and terrible in her white night-dress,
her voice more fearful than the thunder, and her form seeming to
stretch upward and upward, growing thinner and thinner until it
vanished in the awful darkness.

Marian fled, closing the door of her little room and placing a chair
against it. Kneeling by the window, she closed her eyes to shut out
glimpses of the unnatural garden below and the angry sky above. The
thought of sudden death filled her with terror. What would become
of her soul if she died with her sins unconfessed? "Dear Father in
heaven," she cried, "if you have to kill me with lightning, forgive me
and take me to heaven. I'll be good there. I'll never steal anything
there nor ever lie again. I was going to own up to Aunt Amelia, but
O Lord, I was so afraid of her I didn't dare. If you'll let me live
through this night, I'll go and tell her in the morning and then I'll
never do wrong again. O Lord, I'm so sorry, and I'm awful afraid of
lightning. I don't want to die by it, but if I have to, please take me
up to heaven. Amen."

Then Marian went back to bed. Her conscience didn't say a word that
time and she went to sleep before the storm was over, long before Ella
was quieted or ever Aunt Amelia closed her eyes.

Marian's first waking thought when she looked out on the fresh
brightness of another day was one of thankfulness. It was good to be
alive. Another second and she groaned. Perhaps she would have been
dead but for that midnight promise, the promise she must keep. Marian
dressed quickly and sought Aunt Amelia before she lost courage. She
wasn't gone long. Back she flew to the little room where her prayer was
short although her sobs were long.

"Oh, Lord, I couldn't, I just couldn't."

There were many thunder-storms that summer and for a while every one
of them frightened Marian. In the night, she would resolve to confess,
but daylight took away her courage. "If I should be sick a long time,"
Marian argued, "perhaps then Aunt Amelia would like me some and just
before I died I could shut my eyes and tell her about the cookies. Then
God would surely forgive me and I would go straight up to heaven and it
would be all right. But if I should die suddenly, before I had any time
to say any last words, what would become of me?" she asked herself.
After thinking of it some time, Marian hit upon a plan that brought her
peace of mind. She wrote the following confession:

"Nobody knows how much I have suffered on account of some cookies. I
used to like cookies but not now. It began by sugar. I took lumps of
sugar out of a barrel for a boy. I thought if I could take sugar I
could take cookies, too, and I did, but I said I didn't. I did take
the cookies. I hope my folks will forgive me now I am dead. I suffered
awful before I died on account of cookies. Give my wax doll and all my
things to Ella. The doll is good if I wasn't. I tried but it is hard
for some children on earth. I am awful sorry on account of being so
much trouble to everybody. I took those cookies. Marian Lee."

Having folded this paper, Marian was happier than she had been for
weeks. She felt that she had saved her soul.




CHAPTER XII

MARIAN'S DIARY


"JUNE 20.--It is hard to begin a diary. You don't know what to say
first. Bernice Jones says a diary is a book to put the weather in.
She ought to know on account of her grandmother keeping one. Leonore
Whiting, the girl that sits behind me and wears the prettiest ribbons
in school, says a diary is to put your feelings in. Leonore thinks she
ought to know because her sister is a poetry writer.

"When I asked Uncle George for an empty diary and what you write in
it, he laughed and said he would give me all the paper I wanted to
write things in and I had better put down everything. He said it would
be a good thing for me to write more and talk less, so I guess I will
have the fullest diary of any of the Diary Club. That's our name. Maud
Brown was the one that got up the name. She says everybody belongs to
a Club. Her mother does and her father and her brothers too. Maud says
she has got to be in a Club or she never will be happy. She is only
going to keep weather because she doesn't like to write. Leonore and a
lot of the other girls are just going to keep a few feelings, but I am
going to write down weather and feelings and everything.

"The weather is all right to-day.

"It is too bad about vacation. It is almost here and then I won't have
anybody to play with. Uncle George says he never saw a little girl like
to go to school as well as I do. It really isn't school I like to go
to, it is recesses. I guess he had some other boys to play with when he
was little or he would know. I would like to play with Dolly Russel but
my aunt never will let me go over there and she tells Dolly's mother
'No,' about everything she wants me to do. She did let Ella go, only
they don't invite Ella any more. I wonder if she talked too much, or
broke anything, or why? Lala works over there now, but my aunt told me
not to talk to Lala so I don't dare.

"I found out something to-day at school. The children that live in
houses don't all go to bed in the dark. I cried and cried when I first
had to go to bed in the dark because where I used to live, we didn't
have to. I wish I could sit up late at night.

"Another thing about a diary is how nice it will be for your
grandchildren to know what you used to think about and what you used
to do. I can hardly believe that I am the grandmother of my own
grandchildren, but of course it is so.

"June 21.--We took our diaries to school. I had the most written of
anybody, but I don't think it is nice to read your diary out loud
because they ask questions. The girls wanted to know where I used to
live and I wanted to tell them but I didn't dare to, and now I wonder
about things. Louise Fisher said that Dolly Russel's mother told her
mother that my aunt is not good to me, and a good many more things,
and they are all sorry for me and they say it is too bad I can't have
pretty clothes like Ella. I didn't say much because I don't want
everybody in school to know how bad I am and that nobody can love me,
and about the cookies. I guess I would die if they knew it all. Their
mothers wouldn't let them play with me at recess.

"I wish I had a white dress to wear the last day of school when I sing
a song alone and speak my piece. I don't like to sing and speak pieces
because I am afraid. I am not going to take my diary to school any more.

"June 22.--I don't know what to think. I heard some more things about
me at school to-day. Folks wonder who I am and where I came from, and
Louise Fisher says she knows Uncle George is not my own uncle and if
she was me she would run away. I can't run away because I don't know
where to run to and I am afraid. Ella knows things about me and if she
ever gets a chance I guess she will tell me, but her mother won't let
her speak to me if she can help it. I guess her mother doesn't know how
hard I try to set Ella a good example of being polite and not slamming
doors and speak when you're spoken to, and children should be seen and
not heard, and if you behave as well as you look you'll be all right.

"I know it was bad about the cookies, but Ella never can do a cooky
sin because her mother always says to her, 'Help yourself, darling,'
and that's different. Besides that, Ella thinks a tramp did take the
cookies. I will tell her some time because she cried and was sorry I
had so much trouble. Then she will never speak to me again, but it is
better to tell the truth than to do any other way. When I think I am
going to die, sure, then I will tell my aunt if it kills me.

"I wonder if Uncle George is my uncle or what?

"June 23.--It was the last day of school to-day. I sung my song and
spoke my piece and Dolly Russel's mother kissed me. I wish she was my
mother. I wish I had a mother. I am glad she kissed me. Aunt Amelia
wasn't there. Ella cried because she couldn't go. It didn't rain. You
don't think about weather when it is nice.

"September 5.--The queerest thing happened. I thought I would be the
one that would write the most in my diary this summer, but I wasn't,
and good reason why. It was just a little after daylight the day after
the last day of school, that Aunt Amelia came and called me and told me
to get dressed quick, and she gave me all clean clothes to put on and I
was frightened. I said what had I done and she said I had done enough.
I was scared worse than ever. She told me to go down in the kitchen and
I would find some breakfast ready. I thought I couldn't eat, everything
was so queer and early, but I did, and then I had to put on my hat and
Uncle George said, 'Are you ready?' I said where am I going, is it
reform school, and Aunt Amelia said it ought to be, and then I got in
a carriage with Uncle George and the driver put a little new trunk on
behind and we drove to the depot.

"It was awful early and the grass and the trees looked queer and the
birds were singing like everything. Uncle George told me to cheer up, I
was going to a nice place where I would have a good time, and he told
me to write to him every week and he would write to me. He said I
mustn't tell the folks where I was going that I was ever bad. He said
he thought I was a pretty good little girl, and when he put me on the
train and told the conductor where I was going and to take care of me,
because I was his little girl, I put my arms around his neck and kissed
him good-bye. He is a good man. I hope he is my uncle, but I don't know.

"Well, I had a nice time in that village where I went and Uncle George
came after me yesterday. I was glad to see him, but I didn't want to
come home. I wanted to stay and go to the country school, but he said
that my grandchildren would want their grandmother to know something.

"Then he told me he found my diary and that he put it away where nobody
could see it until I got back. He said he thought he had better tell
me to keep my diary out of sight, because that was the style among
diary-writing folks. So I will hide my diary now. I wonder if he read
it. Anyway, I know Aunt Amelia didn't get a chance, because he told me
most particular about how he found it first thing and put it where
it wouldn't get dusty. He says he is my Uncle George. I was afraid
maybe I was just adopted for a niece, and I am not sure yet. He didn't
say he wasn't my adopted Uncle George, and maybe he thought I was his
brother's little girl when I wasn't. The folks I stayed with told Uncle
George I am a lovely child. He didn't look surprised, only glad.

"September 6.--All the girls had new dresses at school. I am in the
fourth grade this term. I am in fractions and on the map of South
America. We played London Bridge and King William at recess.

"September 7.--Too many things to play after school. Can't write. Aunt
Amelia makes me get straight to bed after I come to my room at night.
It doesn't seem like night, though. I don't like to go to bed in the
afternoon very well, but after all, I am glad it doesn't get dark
early. I go to sleep in the daytime and wake up in the daytime and the
birds are always singing.

"September 8.--Nothing happened in school to-day. It rains and I can't
go out in the orchard. I was going to play 'Landing of the Pilgrims,'
but I guess I will write in my diary. Where I was this summer they had
a library, not a big one like the one down-stairs, but the shelves were
low so I could reach the books, and the folks let me read all I wanted
to. I was pretty glad of it, rainy days and Sundays.

"The book I liked best was full of stories about the Norsemen. They
gave me the book to keep. I take it way up in the top of my favorite
apple-tree and read and read. Sometimes I play I'm Odin and sometimes
I am Thor. I am not so afraid of thunder since I read about Thor. When
it thunders and lightens I play I am an old Norseman and that I really
believe Thor is pounding with his big hammer and that he is scaring
the bad frost giants. I am glad Aunt Amelia says she never read Norse
stories. If she had, she would call me Loki, so there's somebody that's
bad she can't say I am.

"What I like best is to sit in the top of the apple-tree and shut the
book and think about the Rainbow Bridge that stretched from earth to
heaven. Every one couldn't cross, but if my father and my mother were
on the other side of the shining bridge, I would look straight towards
them and I wouldn't look down and my mother would hold out her arms and
I wouldn't be afraid. May be the Rainbow Bridge is wide. I am sure it
is when I stop to think, because the gods used to drive over it when
they came to visit the earth. Perhaps they would let me cross if they
saw me coming because it was only the bad giants they tried to keep
out of heaven. Oh, dear, I guess I am a bad giant myself, even if I am
little, because the book says, 'The giants in old Norse times were not
easy to conquer: but generally it was when they hid themselves behind
lies and appeared to be what they were not that they succeeded for a
time.' I hid myself behind lies.

"September 9.--One sure thing, I will always tell the truth as long as
I live. I didn't come straight home from school to-night. A lot of us
girls went in the old cemetery and read what's on the tombstones, and
I didn't get home early. I tried to get through the gate when my aunt
wasn't looking, but that would have been what you call good luck. She
took me in and said, 'Where have you been?' I said, 'In the graveyard.'
She said, 'Why didn't you stay there?' I didn't know what to answer so
I kept still. Then my aunt said, 'You can't go out to play,' and that
was all. So I am always going to tell the truth and feel comfortable
inside, no matter what happens. I was more afraid of how I would feel
when it was time to say my prayers if I told a lie, than I was of my
aunt.

"September 10.--I didn't get home early to-night because I walked
around the pond with Louise Fisher and Maud Brown. I owned up when I
got home. I am not going to write down what happened, but it was worse
than just being sent to your room. I don't want my little grandchildren
to read about it. I am coming straight home next Monday night.

"September 11.--Aunt Amelia says I act worse all the time. I don't know
what I did that was bad to-day, but I got scolded all the time.

"September 12.--Went to church and Sunday-school and the boys made fun
of my shoes. They couldn't make me cry. I should think I would get used
to being made fun of because I have to wear a sunbonnet to school and
all the other little girls wear hats. I wear my sunbonnet as far as my
aunt can see and then I take it off and swing it by the strings. She
would be angry if she knew. I would almost rather be baldheaded than
wear a sunbonnet when all the other girls wear hats. I wish I could
have pretty shoes for Sundays, but I won't let the boys know I care.

"September 13.--I came straight home to-night. I wish school began at
daylight and didn't let out till dark, there is so much trouble at
home. Uncle George says it is all on account of me.

"September 14.--I came straight home and got scolded.

"September 15.--Got scolded again.

"September 16.--Got scolded some more.

"September 17.--Got put to bed without any supper on account of sitting
down by the side of the pond to watch a frog. It was a funny frog and
when I had to go to bed, I went to sleep thinking about it. When it was
almost dark Uncle George came and woke me up to give me something to
eat. He didn't scold. I am writing this the next morning for yesterday.

"September 18.--It was a beautiful Saturday. My aunt had company and
I played out in the orchard all day long. Ella and my aunt and the
company went to drive in the afternoon so there wasn't anybody to scold
me. I saw the mole to-day. He came out and walked around a little. I
guess he knew my aunt was gone. Everything was happy in the orchard. I
watched a caterpillar a long time. He went so fast he made me laugh. I
guess he was going home from school and wanted to get there in time.

"September 19.--This is Sunday. Uncle George called me in the parlor to
sing for the company and some other folks that came. Aunt Amelia played
on the piano and when she couldn't play any more on account of a cramp
in her wrist, they told me to sing without any music and I did. The
company wiped away some tears, and she said I could sing just the way
my father did when he was a little boy, and then she took me in her lap
and said she thought I looked like my mother. I was going to ask some
questions, but my aunt said not to talk about some things, and then
the company said it was going to rain, she guessed, and would I sing
another song. I did and then my aunt sent me to my room, cross. I mean
she was cross. I felt pretty bad at first but I got over it.

"September 20.--Ella says there is a picture of my father in the album,
and she will show it to me first chance she gets.

"September 21.--My aunt was away when I got home from school so Ella
said, 'Now's your chance,' and we went into the parlor and she showed
me the picture. I smiled back at the face because it smiled at me. My
father is pleasant and kind.

"September 22.--I went in the parlor and looked at the picture again. I
was afraid my aunt would come in and find me.

"September 23.--It happened to-day. I was looking at the picture and
my aunt came in still and caught me. She said dreadful things, and I
cried and I don't know what I did, but she said I was saucy and she
didn't know what to do with me. Uncle George heard the noise and came
in and he scolded, too. I never saw him so cross. I almost thought he
was angry with Aunt Amelia, but of course that was not so. At last he
took my father's picture out of the album and gave it to me, and told
me to keep it, and he told me not to go in my aunt's parlor because
she didn't want me there. I knew that before, because I wanted to take
lessons on the piano same as Ella, and she wouldn't let me.

"I am so glad I have my father's picture. It is like having folks of
your own to have a picture of somebody that was yours. I haven't missed
a single question in school on the map of South America. I guess that
is one map I can't forget. I wish I knew where my father went in South
America. I don't dare ask Uncle George. He says I am the trial of his
life, and he doesn't see why I don't behave like other children.

"October 1.--I am getting so I don't care what happens to me. I don't
come straight home from school any more. I always think I will until I
get started home, and then I dread to come because nobody loves me and
I will get scoldings and things anyway, so I stop and look at toads and
frogs and have a good time before I get home, and sometimes nothing
happens. My aunt says I tell things, but I don't. What would I tell
for? I don't even write sad things in my diary because I don't want to
make my grandchildren cry. It would make me feel pretty bad if I found
out that nobody loved my grandmother.

"October 2.--Had a lovely time playing Pocahontas in the grove.

"October 3.--I tried to count the stars last night, but I couldn't. I
wonder why we don't fall off the earth when China's on top? Aunt Amelia
says I ought to know better than to ask her questions. I do.

"October 20.--I listened to what the minister said to-day. It was about
heaven. I've got to try to be awful good on earth so I can surely go
there. Then I guess somebody will love me and when I walk in through
one of the pearly gates, the angels won't look cross.

"October 21.--You get tired of keeping your diary. I am going to write
a book. Its name will be 'The Little Daughter of Thor.' I guess Thor
never had a little girl, but I am going to write it in a book that he
did, and one day when the little girl was a baby and she was playing
with the golden apples, she fell right through the sky on to the earth.
Then I am going to write about how the little girl watched for the
Rainbow Bridge. She was a little stray child on earth, and even the
giants were kind to her. Of course Thor's little daughter would know
enough to know that the only way home was over the blue and golden
Rainbow Bridge that she couldn't see only sometimes.

"At the end of the story, Thor himself will find the little girl and
will take her in his chariot across the Rainbow Bridge to the shining
bright city in the clouds where her mother will hug her pretty near to
pieces. Maybe when I get the book done, I will write another about what
Thor's little daughter did when she got home. About the songs she used
to sing with her mother, and the flowers they used to pick and about
everything that is happiness. It will be nicer to do than keeping an
old diary about real things.

"The nicest looking man's picture I ever saw is my father, so I am
going to have him for Thor. My father looks kind and smiling, but he
looks, too, as if he would know how to use Thor's big hammer if the bad
giants tried to cross the Rainbow Bridge. I think it is queer that I
like the god of thunder so well that I will let him have my father's
face in my book.

"October 22.--I am going to put some last words in my diary, just
to say that it is a good thing to write a book. Something dreadful
happened after school to-night. I felt dreadful, nobody knows. I got
over it though, and then because I had to stay in my room and have dry
bread and water for my supper, I started my book and it was lots of
fun. It is the best thing there is to do when you want to forget you
are a little girl that nobody loves. If I live here until I am an old
lady I presume I will turn into an author.

"If it wasn't for the orchard and the locust grove and the way home
from school, and recesses and my doll and my books, and the birds and
the wild flowers and the lovely blue sky I can see from my window this
minute, and a good many other things, I would wish I had died when I
was a baby. That makes me laugh. It is a nice world to live in after
all. A beautiful world."




CHAPTER XIII

DIPHTHERIA


EARLY in the winter, diphtheria broke out in the schools. Marian said
little about it at home, fearing she might not be allowed to go, though
the daily paper told the whole story. Why the schools were not closed
was a question even in the long ago days when Marian was a child.
Uncle George was indignant, but influenced by his wife's arguments,
he allowed Marian to have her way. Mrs. St. Claire said Marian was
better off in school than at home, and in no more danger of catching
diphtheria than she would be hanging over the fence talking to passing
children. Marian didn't tell her Uncle George that she was never
allowed to speak to passing children. He might have kept her home.

Weeks passed and many little ones died. The schoolroom became a solemn
place to Marian. It seemed strange to look at empty seats and know
that the ones who used to sit in them would never come to school again.
Even the boys were quieter than ever before. There were no longer paper
wads flying the minute the teacher's back was turned, perhaps because
the chief mischief maker's curly head was missing. He was Tommy Jewel,
and he made things lively at the beginning of the term.

Marian felt that it was something to have known so many girls and boys
who died. At recess in the basement she used to ask children from the
other rooms how many of their number were missing. Marian felt so well
and full of life it never entered her head that she might be taken ill
herself, and the thought of death was impossible, although she often
closed her eyes and folded her hands, trying to imagine her school-days
were over.

At home the children met but seldom after the outbreak of diphtheria.
Marian ate her breakfast alone and Ella had hers when the little cousin
had gone to school. It was easily possible for Mrs. St. Claire to keep
the children entirely separate. To guard Ella from all danger of
contagion was her daily care and the smell of burning sulphur was ever
present in the house.

One morning Marian's throat was sore and she felt ill. The child
dressed quickly and went down to tell Uncle George. Tilly the maid was
at her home on a short visit, and Uncle George was building the kitchen
fire.

"I've got the diphtheria," announced Marian, and there was terror in
her face.

"Let me look in your throat," said Uncle George. "Why it looks all
right, Marian, just a little red."

"I don't care, I feel sick all over," insisted the child, "and I tell
you now and then, I know I've got it."

When Aunt Amelia was called she said Marian imagined that her throat
was sore and as Marian ate breakfast, she was sent to school. The child
went away crying. She didn't swing her little dinner pail around and
around that morning just to show that she could do it and keep the
cover on. Uncle George was inclined to call her back, but Aunt Amelia
laughed at him.

"Any child," argued Mrs. St. Claire, "that could eat the breakfast she
did, isn't at death's door, now you mark my words. She has let her
imagination run away with her. Our darling Ella is far more apt to have
diphtheria than that child. She would be willing to have the disease to
get a little sympathy."

Marian felt better out in the fresh air and as she met Ellen Day soon
after leaving home, the way to school seemed short. The chief ambition
of Marian's school life was to sit on a back seat, yet from the
beginning, it had been her lot to belong to the front row. The teachers
had a way of putting her there and Marian knew the reason. It wasn't
because she was the smallest child in the room, although that was the
truth. Tommy Jewel used to sit on a front seat, too, and once Marian
had to share the platform with him. The teacher said they were a good
pair and the other children laughed. Possibly the memory of Tommy's
mischievous face caused the teacher to notice how quiet Marian was the
morning her throat was sore. The child sat with her elbows on her desk,
her face in her hands, staring solemnly into space.

"Are you ill, Marian?" asked the teacher.

"No, Miss Beck," the child answered, recalling her aunt's remarks.

At last, conscious of pathetic eyes following her about the room and
having heard of Aunt Amelia, the teacher again questioned Marian. "What
is the trouble, little girl? Is there anything you would like to do?
Would you like to write on the blackboard?"

Marian's face lighted. "I wish I could sit in that empty back seat all
day," she eagerly suggested.

The teacher smiled. "You may pack your books, Marian, and sit there
until I miss you so much I shall need you down here again."

Marian knew what that meant. "I'll be awful good," she promised. "I
mean, I'll be ever so good."

So Marian sat in a back seat that last day and in spite of her sore
throat and headache, she was happy. It was triumph to sit in a back
seat. She was glad the children looked around and smiled. They might
get bad marks for turning their heads, to be sure, but what of it?
At recess Marian walked across the schoolroom once or twice, then
returned to her seat. At noon she refused to go to the basement with
the children to eat her luncheon. In fact, she couldn't eat. Marian
wondered why time seemed so long.

When the history class was called to the recitation seat early in the
afternoon, one little girl was motionless when the signals were given.

"Marian Lee's asleep," volunteered the child who sat in front of her.

At that, Marian raised her head and stumbled to her class.

"Don't you feel well?" asked the teacher.

Marian shook her head. Her cheeks were crimson. She had never felt so
wretched.

"Don't you think you had better go home?" continued Miss Beck.

"Oh, no," answered the child in tones of alarm. "Oh, she wouldn't let
me come home before school is out."

"There, there, don't cry," begged the teacher. "You may go back to
your seat if you wish."

Marian did so and was soon asleep again. At recess she awoke to find
herself alone in the room with Miss Beck.

"You had better go home, dear," the teacher urged. "I am sure you are
ill. Let me help you put on your coat and hood."

"I can't go home until school is out," and Marian began to cry.

"Why not?"

"Because on account of my aunt. She wouldn't let me come home."

"But you are ill, Marian."

"She won't let me be sick," was the sobbing reply, "and I don't dare go
home. You don't know my aunt. I guess I feel better. I want to go where
it isn't so hot."

The teacher was young and hopeful. "Perhaps you will feel better if you
go out to play," was her reply.

Instead of going out of doors, Marian went into the basement and joined
in a game of blind man's buff. Only a few minutes and she fell upon
the floor in a dead faint. When the child opened her eyes she found
herself the centre of attraction. The basement was quiet as though the
command had been given to "Form lines." A strange teacher was holding
Marian and Miss Beck was bathing her face with a damp handkerchief.
Her playmates stood about in little groups, whispering the dread word
"Diphtheria." Miss Beck came to her senses and ordered the children
into the fresh air. How to send Marian home was the next question. The
child listened to the various suggestions and then, struggling to her
feet declared that she would walk home alone. She couldn't imagine what
her aunt might say if she did anything else.

The child had her way. Through the gate and down the road she went
alone. The journey was long and the wind was cold. The little feet were
never so weary as that December day. It seemed to Marian that she could
never reach home. Finally she passed the church. Seven more houses
after that, then a turn to the right and two more houses. If she dared
sit down on the edge of the sidewalk and rest by the way, but that
wouldn't do. "I could never stir again," she thought and plodded on.

At last she reached her own gate and saw Ella at the window. Would Aunt
Amelia scold? It would be good to get in where it was warm, anyway. Oh,
if Aunt Amelia would open the front door and say, "Come in this way,
Marian," but she didn't and the child stumbled along a few more steps
to the back entrance. She was feeling her way through the house when
Aunt Amelia stopped her in the dining-room.

"Don't come any further," said she. "I have callers in the parlor. What
are you home in the middle of the afternoon for?"

"I've got the diphtheria," the child replied, and her voice was thick.

Aunt Amelia made no reply but returned immediately through the
sitting-room to the parlor.

"I guess she knows I'm sick now," Marian whispered as she sank into a
chair by the table and pushed her dinner pail back to make room for
her aching head. The callers left. Marian heard the front door open
and close. Then Aunt Amelia hastily entered the dining-room, threw
a quantity of sulphur upon the stove and went back, closing the door
behind her. Another door closed and Marian knew that her aunt was in
the parlor with Ella.

The child choked and strangled and called to her aunt. She tried to
walk and couldn't stand. The fumes of burning sulphur grew stronger and
stronger. The air was blue. Marian became terrified as no one replied
to her calls, but in time a merciful feeling of rest and quiet stole
over her and her head fell forward upon the table.

For a long time she knew nothing. Then came dreams and visions. Part
of the time Marian recalled that she was home from school early and
that she had not taken off her hood and coat. Again she wondered where
she was and why it was so still. Then came an awful dread of death.
Where was everybody and what would become of her? The thought of
death aroused Marian as nothing else had done. Would she be left to
die alone? She remembered that some of her schoolmates were ill with
diphtheria but a few hours before the end came. Where was Aunt Amelia?
Had she gone away from the house? Marian could not lift her head and
when she tried to call her aunt her voice was a smothered whisper. What
she suffered before her uncle came was a story long untold. Things
happened when Uncle George walked into the house. He aired the room and
there was wrath in his voice as he demanded explanations.

"Have patience a minute more, little girl, and it will be all right,"
he said to Marian, as he brought a cot into the room and quickly made a
bed. Then he undressed her, put her in bed and grabbed his hat.

"Oh, don't leave me," begged Marian, "please don't, Uncle George, I'm
awful sick and I'm afraid when I'm alone."

"I'm going for the doctor," was the reply; "lie still and trust Uncle
George."

The man was gone but a moment and soon after he returned, the doctor
came. It was no easy matter to look in Marian's throat. It needed more
than the handle of a spoon to hold down the poor little tongue.

"Am I going to die right off?" demanded the child. "Oh, if I can only
live I'll be so good. I'll never do anything bad again. Tell me quick,
have I got to die to-night?"

For a time it seemed useless to try to quiet the little girl. "Oh, I'm
afraid to die," she moaned, "I don't dare to die. Aunt Amelia says I
won't go to heaven and I'm afraid. I don't want to tell what she does
say. Oh, Uncle George, don't let me die. Tell the doctor you want me to
get well. Tell him I'll be good."

Uncle George sat down and covered his face with his hands when Marian
told him she couldn't hear what he said, that it was dark and she
wanted more light so she could see his face that she might know if he
was angry. Then she called for Aunt Amelia, and Aunt Amelia would not
come; she was afraid of the diphtheria.

"But if I'm going to die, I've got to tell her," cried the child,
clutching at the air, and it was some time before Uncle George
understood.

"Child, child, don't speak of cookies," he begged, "that was all right
long ago;" but the assurance fell upon unheeding ears.

The nurse came and went up-stairs to prepare a room for Marian. The
woman's appearance convinced the child that there was no hope--she was
surely going to die. Uncle George groaned as he listened to her ravings.

At last the doctor put down his medicine case and drew a chair close
beside the cot. He was a big man with a face that little children
trusted. He took both of Marian's small, burning hands in one of his
and told her she must look at him and listen to what he had to tell
her. Uncle George moved uneasily. He thought the doctor was about to
explain to Marian that unless she kept more quiet, nothing would save
her, she would have to die. The man was surprised when he heard what
the kind physician said. He talked to Marian of the friend of little
children and of the beautiful home beyond the skies. Nor would he allow
her to interrupt, but patiently and quietly told her over and over
that the One who took little children up in His arms and blessed them,
didn't ask whether they were good or bad. He loved them all. The sins
of little children were surely forgiven.

The troubled brain of the child grasped the meaning at last. There
was nothing to fear. She closed her eyes and was quiet for a few
moments. When she began to talk again, it was of summer mornings and
apple-blossoms, of the wild birds and the chipmunk that lived in the
locust grove. Many days passed before Marian realized anything more:
then she knew that Uncle George took care of her nights and the nurse
came every morning.

"Where is my aunt?" asked the child. "Doesn't she come up here?"

"Your aunt and little cousin," replied the nurse, "stay by themselves
in the front part of the house down-stairs. They are afraid of the
diphtheria."

Marian stared at the wall. She was glad to know there was no danger
that Aunt Amelia might walk in, but somehow it seemed better not to
tell the nurse.

"Am I going to die?" she asked.

The question came so suddenly the nurse was taken by surprise.
"Why--why we hope not," was the reply.

Something in the tones of the woman's voice impressed the truth upon
Marian's mind. She was far more likely to die than to live. "I only
wanted to know," she remarked, "I'm not afraid any more. I only hope I
won't be a grown up angel the first thing. I should like to be a little
girl with a mother and live in one of the many mansions for a while,
like other children. I'd pick flowers in the front yard."

Soon after, the child fell asleep. When she awoke she was delirious,
talking continually about the Rainbow Bridge. The doctor came, but it
was hours before the Rainbow Bridge faded away and Marian was quiet.
That was the day the little pilgrim seemed near the journey's end.
Until sunset, Uncle George watched each fluttering breath. In the
silent room below, Ella wept bitterly and Aunt Amelia waited to hear
that the little soul was gone. She waited calmly, declaring that she
had done her duty by the child up-stairs.

Marian lived. A few weeks more and Aunt Amelia heard her ringing
laugh and knew that she was happy. At last Marian was well enough to
leave her room but it was days and days after the house was fumigated
before she was allowed to see Ella or sit at the table with the family.
Everything seemed changed. The rooms were brighter and more cheerful.
The pictures on the walls had a different meaning. The very chairs
looked new. Nothing appeared just as Marian left it. Even Aunt Amelia
was better looking and spoke more kindly to the child. Nothing was ever
the same after Marian had diphtheria. She never returned to the little
back room where she was away from all the family at night, nor did she
ever again doubt that Uncle George was her own uncle.

Many bright days crowded one upon another during the remaining weeks
of winter. The neighbors invited Marian to their homes and took her
driving with them. Dolly Russel's mother gave a house party for her,
inviting little girls from the country for a week in town. That was the
time Marian was so happy she almost believed herself a princess in
a fairy tale. When she was home again, the child added a line to her
diary.

"February 29.--I had diphtheria this winter and it was a good thing. I
got well and now I am having the best time that ever was written down
in a diary. I have changed my mind about being an author. I won't have
time to write books. There is too much fun in the world."




CHAPTER XIV

MUSICAL CONVERSATIONS


ONCE in a great while Marian and Ella had a chance to play together.
These rare occasions were times of joy.

Mrs. St. Claire usually took Ella with her wherever she went, but
sometimes she was compelled to leave the child at home with her father
or Tilly, and there was merriment in the house. The little cousins
had gay times and their only regret was that such hours of happiness
were few. At last Marian thought of a plan. Her new room was opposite
Ella's. As Aunt Amelia insisted upon sending Marian to bed at seven,
Uncle George declared that early hours were necessary for Ella's
welfare. Accordingly, both children went to their rooms at the same
time with instructions not to talk. No one cautioned them not to sing
and singing was one of Marian's habits. After listening to the solos a
few nights, Ella tried a song of her own and that gave Marian an idea.
She listened until Ella stopped for breath and then expressed a few
thoughts to the tune of "Home, Sweet Home."

  "O-oh, I know what will be great fun
  And I'll tell you what it is,
  We will play go to gay old concerts,
  And take our children too.

  "First the other lady
  Can sing a good long song,
  And then it will be my turn next,
  And I'll sing a song myself.

  "Fun fu-un-fun, fun-fun,
  I guess it will be fun-fun,
  I guess it will be fun."

It was fun. The other lady took the hint quickly. She and her children
went to the concert without waiting to get ready. Furthermore she left
herself sitting beside her children in the best seat in the hall and at
the same time took her place on the stage. She even went so far as to
become a colored man while she sang

  "Way down upon the Suwanee River."

Ella's mother came up-stairs for something as the gentleman was
rendering this selection with deep feeling, but she had no idea that
her little daughter was singing on the stage, nor did she know that the
greatest soprano in America was the next performer, although she did
hear Marian begin in tragic tones, "'There is a happy land, far, far
away.'" "Far, far away" was tremulous with emotion.

From that hour dated many a concert, and after the concerts, the ladies
continued to sing everything they had wished to talk over during the
day. Often the musical conversations were cut short by an admonition
from the hall below, but even Tilly never learned the nature of those
evening songs. As the children disturbed nobody and were put to bed
long before they were sleepy, Uncle George said, "Let them sing." In
this way Marian and Ella became well acquainted.

One night Marian asked Ella if she knew anything about how she happened
to be taken to the Little Pilgrim's Home when she was a baby.

    "No-o-o," replied Ella in shrill soprano,
    "They won't tell-ell me-e a thing now-ow days
    But a long time ago-go
    They used to talk about everything
    Right before me-e, only the trouble is-s,
    I was such a little goo-oose
    I didn't think much about it."

    "Do you know anything about my mother-other-other?"
    Chanted the musician across the hall.

    "No-o-o," was the response,
    "I only know-o that my mother-other
    Didn't know your mother-other, ever in her li-ife,
    But I do-oo remember-ember that the folks at that Ho-o-me
    Had some things that used to belong-long
    To your mother-other.
    And they are packed away-way somewhere in the house.
    I guess they are in the attic-attic,
    But of course I don't know-o.

    "Once I saw-aw a picture of your mother-other
    But I don't remember-ember
    What she looked like, looked like-looked like.
    Don't you wi-ish your mother wasn't dead?
    If you had a mother-other
    I could go to your hou-ouse
    And your mother-other
    Would let us play together-ether."

    "Yes, yes, she would," Marian's voice chimed in,
    "She would let us play-ay
    All the day-ay.
    And sometimes I thi-ink my mother is ali-ive,
    And if she is, won't I be gla-ad.
    If I do find my mother-other
    And I go to live with her-er,
    Why, may be your mother-other will die-i
    And then you can come and live with u-us
    And won't that be gay-ay.
    You never know what's going to happen in this world."

"What kind of a song are you singing?" called Aunt Amelia.

"Opera house music," replied Marian, who feared that concerts were over
for the season when she heard the question.

"I thought," responded Aunt Amelia, "that a lunatic asylum was turned
loose. Don't let me hear another sound to-night."

The musicians laughed softly, and there were no more solos that evening.

The following day Ella and Aunt Amelia went visiting and in the middle
of the forenoon, when Tilly was busily working in the kitchen, Marian
climbed the attic stairs with determination in her eye. An old portrait
of George Washington on the wall at the landing seemed to question
her motives. "Don't worry, Mr. Washington," remarked the child, "I'm
not going to tell a lie, but sir, I'm looking for my mother and I'm
going to find her if she's here." Marian gazed steadily at the face in
the old oaken frame, and meeting with no disapproval there, passed on,
leaving the Father of her Country to guard the stairway.

There were numerous trunks, boxes, barrels and an old sea-chest in the
attic. Marian hesitated a moment before deciding to try the yellow
chest. Her knees shook as she lifted the cover. At first she was
disappointed; there seemed to be nothing but blankets in the chest.
Then a bit of blue silk peeping from beneath the blankets caught her
eye and Marian knew she was searching in the right place. From the
depths of the chest she drew forth a bundle, unfolded it and beheld a
beautiful gown of pale blue silk, trimmed with exquisite lace. Tears
filled her eyes as she touched the shimmering wonder. She had never
seen anything like it.

"This was my mother's," she whispered, and kissed the round neck as
she held the waist close in her arms. "She wore it once, my mother."
Marian would gladly have looked at the dress longer but time was
precious and there was much to see. Embroidered gowns of purest white,
bright sashes and ribbons were there, and many another dainty belonging
of the woman whose name was never mentioned in the presence of her
child. In a carved ivory box, were jewels. Marian closed it quickly,
attracted by a bundle at the bottom of the chest. She had found it at
last. The picture of her mother. It was in an oval frame, wrapped in a
shawl of white wool.

"Oh, if I had her, if she could only come to me," cried Marian, as the
lovely face became her own. Though the child might never again see the
picture, yet would it be ever before her.

When she dared stay in the attic no longer, Marian kissed the picture,
wrapped it in the white shawl and laid it tenderly away. As she did so
she noticed for the first time a folded newspaper on the bottom of the
chest. Inside the paper was a small photograph. Marian tiptoed to the
attic stairs and listened a moment before she looked at the photograph.
Then she uttered a low exclamation of delight. There was no doubt that
the face in the oval frame was her mother's, for the small picture was
a photograph of Marian's father and a beautiful woman. "It's the same
head," whispered the child, "and oh, how pretty she is. I am so glad
she is my mother!

"I wonder what they saved an old newspaper so carefully for?" continued
Marian. "Maybe I had better look at it. What does this mean? 'Claimed
by Relatives,' who was claimed, I wonder? Oh! I was! Now I'll find out
all I want to know because, only see how much it tells!"

Marian laid the photograph down and read the article from beginning
to end. She didn't see George Washington when she passed him on the
landing on the way down-stairs and for the rest of the day the child
was so quiet every one in the house marveled. There were no concerts
that evening. The leading soprano had too much on her mind. The
following morning Marian sharpened her lead pencil and opened her
diary. After looking for a moment at the white page she closed the book.

"No use writing down what you are sure to remember," she remarked, "and
besides that, it is all too sad and finished. I am going outdoors and
have some fun." Marian was in the back yard watching a cricket, when
Ella sauntered down the path singing, "Good-morning, Merry Sunshine."

"Where are you going, sweetheart?" called her mother from the kitchen
window.

"Just down here by the fence to get some myrtle leaves," Ella replied
and went on singing.

Marian bent over the cricket nor did she look up although Ella gave her
surprising information as she passed.

    "If I were you, Miss Marian Lee,
    I'll tell you what I'd do,
    I'd pack my doll and everything I wanted to take with me,
    Because in the very early morning,
    You're surely going away
    To a country town where you will stay
    Until school begins again.

    "I knew they were going to send you somewhere,
    But I didn't know just when,
    Until I just now heard my father and mother
    Both talking all about it.
    I know you'll have a pretty good time,
    I wish I were going too,
    But maybe you'll find some girls to play with,
    I'm sure I hope you do."

Marian smiled but dared not reply, especially as the singer broke
down and laughed and Aunt Amelia knew there were no funny lines in
"Good-morning, Merry Sunshine."

The hint was enough. Marian straightened her affairs for a journey and
a long absence from home.




CHAPTER XV

LITTLE SISTER TO THE DANDELION


MARIAN asked no questions the following morning until she was on her
way to the station with Uncle George. "Where am I going?" she finally
ventured.

"Where you passed the summer last year," was the reply. "How does that
suit you?"

"Suit me," repeated Marian, "nothing ever suited me better. I'm pretty
glad I'm going there. Why didn't you send me back to school, Uncle
George? School won't be out for two months. I'm glad you didn't, but
why?"

"Well, sis, you told me you wanted to go to the country school."

"Yes, but----"

"Now's your chance," interrupted the man, "learn all you can and try to
do some one thing better than any one else in school, will you?"

"Well, but Uncle George, big boys and big girls go to country schools."

"What of it, Marian? You do some one thing better than any one else in
school, and when you come home this fall you may choose any book you
wish at the book store, and I will buy it for you."

"But, Uncle George, how will you know whether I really do something
better than any one else or not?"

"I'll take your word for it, Marian."

"My word is true," the child remarked with dignity.

"No doubt about it," added Uncle George, turning away to hide a smile.

Just as the train pulled into the station, Marian caught a glimpse of a
small blue butter-fly. It fluttered away out of sight as Uncle George
said "good-bye." "Oh, I hate to leave that butter-fly," exclaimed
Marian, and those were the last words Uncle George heard as he left
her. The passengers smiled, but Uncle George looked thoughtful. There
was so much to be seen from the car windows and so many folks to
wonder about within the car, the journey seemed short.

Two young ladies welcomed Marian at the train, hugging and kissing her
the minute the small feet touched the platform. "I guess folks will
think you're some relation to me," laughed the child.

"So we are," replied Miss Ruth Golding. "We are your cousins."

"Certainly," agreed Miss Kate, "your Uncle George knew us when we were
little girls, so of course we are your cousins."

"Of course!" echoed Marian, "and I know my summer of happiness has
begun this day in April."

"Your troubles have begun, you mean," warned Miss Ruth; "the
school-teacher boards with us and you'll have to toe the mark."

"Oh, goody!" exclaimed Marian. "I can walk to school with her."

"You won't say 'goody' when you see the lady," predicted Miss Kate.
"She's as sober as a judge, very quiet, and keeps to herself."

"What's the matter with her?" asked Marian.

"She's lived in the city all her life and eaten books," explained Ruth.
"She eats them, Marian, covers, binding, pictures and everything. Too
bad, but maybe you'll get used to it. Here is mother coming to meet
you, and here comes Carlo."

Marian ran ahead to throw her arms around Mrs. Golding's neck. "I am so
glad they sent me back to you," she cried. "I didn't say anything about
it to my aunt because she would have sent me somewhere else. It doesn't
do to let her know when you're too happy. She isn't a bit like you, not
a bit."

"No, I think not," was the response. "You see, dear, your neighbor,
Mrs. Russel, is one of my old friends, and she has told me so much
about your aunt I feel as if I know her. I am sure we are not alike."

"Why, I should say not!" laughed Marian. "Why she's as thin as--as
knitting needles, and you're as plump as new pin cushions. Won't we
have fun this summer, though? Well, Carlo, old fellow. Didn't forget
Marian, did he? Nice old doggie."

"Down, sir!" Mrs. Golding commanded. "He is so glad to see you, Marian,
he can't express his feelings without trying to knock you over."

"I wish Uncle George owned a dog," commented Marian; "there'd always
be some one glad to see you when you got home. I like dogs. Does the
teacher come home at noon, Mrs. Golding?"

"No, sometimes we don't see her until supper time. She won't be such
jolly company for you as my girls. She's too quiet."

"Is she cross, Mrs. Golding?"

"No, oh, no indeed."

"Then I shall like her," was the quick reply.

There were callers in the late afternoon, so Marian wandered out alone.
She had gone but a short distance down the lane when she saw dandelions
ahead. She gathered a handful of the short-stemmed blooms and walked
on. In the distance she heard a bluebird singing. Marian ran to find it
and was rewarded by a flash of glorious blue as the bird sought a tree
across the river. Marian followed it as far as she could, being obliged
to stop at the river's bank. As she stood gazing after the bird, she
was startled by a woman's voice.

"What have you in your hand, little girl?"

Turning, Marian saw a young lady sitting on a log near by. "Just
dandelions," the child replied, and would have hidden the bunch behind
her if the young lady had not forbidden it.

"We all love dandelions, little girl," she said; "come and show them to
me."

Marian wonderingly obeyed.

"Did you ever look at a dandelion through a microscope?" continued the
young lady.

"No, I never did."

The stranger passed Marian a microscope and asked her to tell what she
saw.

"Oh, I never knew a dandelion was like this," said Marian; "why there
are a thousand little blossoms in it all crowded together, and they are
the goldenest golden ever was! Oh, oh, oh! Wasn't it lucky you were
here so I could see through your microscope? What if I had never seen
that dandelion!"

"Would you like to borrow the microscope often?" asked the young lady,
smiling so pleasantly Marian straightway decided that she was pretty.

"Well, I should say yes, Miss--Miss--you see I don't know what your
name is?"

"Oh, that's so, I am Miss Smith, Miss Virginia Smith. Who are you?"

"My name," was the reply, "is Marian Lee, but who I am I don't really
know."

Miss Smith repressed her curiosity, believing that Marian was the
little girl the Goldings were to meet that day.

"It's everything to have a name," said she.

"Yes, but I'd like some relatives," Marian explained, "some real
sisters and cousins and aunts of my own."

"Why don't you do as Hiawatha did?" Miss Smith suggested.

"You mean play all the birds and squirrels are my brothers and sisters?
I think I will. I'll be little sister to the dandelion."

Miss Smith laughed with Marian. "I'll do the same thing," said she,
"and if we are sisters to the dandelion, you must be my little sister
and I'm your big sister and all the wild flowers belong to our family."

"It's a game," agreed Marian. "I suppose little Indian children picked
dandelions in the spring-time before Columbus discovered America."

"There were no dandelions then to pick," Miss Smith remonstrated. "The
plant was brought here by white men. Its name is from the French,
meaning lion's tooth."

"I don't see anything about a dandelion to mean lion's tooth," objected
Marian; "do you?"

"No, I don't, Marian, nor does any one know exactly how it came by
its name. Some believe it was given to the plant because its root is
so white; then again, in the old days lions were pictured with teeth
yellow as dandelion blossoms. The explanation I like best is that the
dandelion was named after the lion because the lion is the animal that
used to represent the sun, and all flowers named after him are flowers
of the sun."

"Do you know anything more about dandelions?" questioned Marian.

"If I don't," said Miss Virginia Smith, smiling as she spoke, "it isn't
because there is nothing more to learn. Did you ever hear the dandelion
called the shepherd's clock?"

"No, Miss Smith, never. Why should they call it that?"

"Because the dandelion is said to open at five and close at eight."

"Well!" exclaimed Marian, "I guess you could write a composition about
dandelions."

"Possibly," was the laughing response. "As far as that goes, Marian,
there isn't a thing that grows that hasn't a history if you take the
time and trouble to hunt it up."

"Skunk cabbages?" suggested Marian.

"Yes, 'skunk cabbages,'" was the reply. "What flowers do you suppose
are related to it?"

"I don't know, unless Jack-in-the-pulpit, maybe, is it?"

"That's right, guess again."

"I'll have to give up, Miss Smith. I never saw anything except
Jack-in-the-pulpit that looks a bit like old skunk cabbage."

"The calla lily, Marian, what do you think of that?"

"I don't know, Miss Smith, but such things happen, of course, because
Winnie Raymond has a horrible looking old Uncle Pete, and Winnie's
awful pretty herself. But how do you know so much about plants?"

"By reading and observation, Marian."

"Are there many books about wild flowers, Miss Smith?"

"More than we can ever read, little girl. Better than that the country
around this village is a garden of wild flowers. Down by the old mill
and on the hills, in the fields and woods and along the river bank, we
shall find treasures from now on every time we take the shortest walk."

"Oh, dear," grumbled Marian, "isn't it too bad I've got to go to
school?"

"Why don't you like to go to school, child?"

"At home I do, on account of recesses. I don't like the school part of
it much, but here it would be recess all the time if I could go in
the woods with you, besides having a good time with the Golding girls
and playing all day long where I don't get scolded. Dear! I wish I
didn't have to go to school, or else I wish they'd have lessons about
birds and flowers and butterflies and little animals, instead of old
arithmetic. I hate arithmetic."

"Do you?" sympathized Miss Smith. "That's too bad, because we all need
to understand arithmetic."

"I don't," protested Marian. "I don't even think arithmetic thoughts."

"Some day, Marian, you will wish you understood arithmetic," said Miss
Smith. "Now if you and I went for a walk and we saw ten crows, three
song sparrows, five bluebirds, seven chipping sparrows and twenty-seven
robins, and Mrs. Golding asked us when we got home how many birds we
saw, I wonder how you would feel if you couldn't add?"

"Well, but don't you see," interrupted Marian, "I could add birds, yes
and subtract and multiply and divide them. That's different. What I
don't like is just figures and silly arithmetic things."

"Well, Marian, I may as well tell you now that I'm the school-teacher
and we'll have arithmetic stories about birds and flowers and little
animals."

"Oh, are you the teacher?" exclaimed Marian. "I thought she
was--was--different, you know."

"Different, how?"

"Well, they told me the teacher was--was quiet."

"So she is, usually," agreed Miss Smith, "but this afternoon she met
one of her own folks. This little sister to the dandelion."

"Won't we have fun!" was Marian's comment.




CHAPTER XVI

PROFESSOR LEE, BOTANIST


MISS VIRGINIA SMITH knew how to teach arithmetic. Fractions lost
their terror for Marian, even the mysteries of cube root were eagerly
anticipated. History became more than ever a living story to the child,
and geography was a never failing joy. On rainy days every stream and
puddle between Mrs. Golding's home and the schoolhouse was named, and
if several Mississippi Rivers emptied into Gulfs of Mexico, and if
half a dozen Niles overflowed their banks over the country road, what
difference did it make? When the sun shone bright and only dew-drops
glistened in the shade, Marian saw deserts and plains, mountains and
volcanoes along the dusty way.

For a time the game of geography became so absorbing Marian played it
at the table, forming snowy peaks of mashed potatoes and sprinkling
salt upon the summits until the drifts were so deep, only the valleys
below were fit to be eaten. Brown gravy was always the Missouri River
winding its way across Marian's plate between banks of vegetables. Ice
cream meant Mammoth Cave. A piece of pie was South Africa from which
the Cape of Good Hope quickly disappeared. However hungry Marian might
be, there was a time when she ate nothing but continents and islands.

Whatever Miss Virginia Smith tried to teach the country children,
Marian Lee appropriated for herself. She listened to all recitations
whether of the chart class or the big boys and girls. Perhaps if Marian
had attended more strictly to her own lessons, she might have made the
kind of a record she thought would please Uncle George. As it was,
Jimmie Black "Left off head" in the spelling class more times than she
did, the first month. Belle Newman had higher standings in arithmetic
and geography, and some one carried off all the other honors.

Marian, however, knew something about botany before the end of May,
and she gloried in the fact that she could name all the bones in her
body. Mr. Golding was proud of her accomplishment and once when she
went with him to see old Bess newly shod, he asked her to name the
bones for the blacksmith: and the blacksmith thought it wonderful that
a little girl knew so much. "Yes, but that's nothing," remarked the
child, "all the big boys and girls in the fifth reader class know their
bones."

"Ain't you in the fifth reader?" asked the blacksmith.

"No," was the reply, "I can read the whole reader through, but I'm
not in that reader class. That's the highest class in the country. I
suppose being in the fifth reader here is like being in the high school
at home just before you graduate. I won't have to learn bones when I
get up to the high school."

"And still you say that ain't nothing," protested the blacksmith.

Marian shook her head. "I haven't done one thing in school better'n
anybody else," she said, "and to do something better'n anybody else
is all that counts. Don't you try to be the best blacksmither in the
country?"

Old Bess flourished her tail in the blacksmith's face and the man spoke
to her next instead of to Marian. He wasn't the best blacksmith and he
knew it. Some years afterwards when he had won an enviable reputation,
he told Mr. Golding that the first time he thought of trying to do
unusually good work was when the little Lee girl asked him if he tried
to be the best blacksmith in the country.

Concerning botany, Miss Smith knew that Marian was interested in the
wild flowers and had told her many a legend of wayside blooms when
walking with her through the fields and across the hills: but she
had no idea how much the child had learned from listening to the
recitations of the botany class, until the Saturday morning when the
wax doll went to school. Miss Smith happened to pass the corn-crib
unnoticed by teacher or pupil.

The doll was propped in an attitude of attention among the ears of corn.

"Now, little girl," the instructor was saying, "if you ever expect to
amount to anything in this world, you've got to use your eyes and
ears. I'm the Professor of Botany your mother was reading about last
night, who knew nothing about botany until she began to study it. Next
winter when we can't get outdoors, I am going to give you lessons on
seeds and roots and things and stems and leaves. The Professor of
Botany has got to learn the names of the shapes of leaves and how to
spell them. She really ought to own a book but she doesn't, and that
can't be helped. You're sure to get what you want some time though, if
you only try hard enough, and the Botany Professor will get a book. You
just wait.

"Don't think, little girl, because we are skipping straight over
to flowers this morning that you are going to get out of learning
beginnings. We're taking flowers because it is summer. Of course you
know this is a strawberry blossom I hold in my hand. Well, if it
wasn't for strawberry blossoms you couldn't have strawberry shortcake,
remember that. That's the principal thing about strawberries. This
little circle of white leaves is called the corolla. Now don't get the
calyx mixed with the corolla as some children do. I tell you it makes
me feel squirmy to hear some big girls recite. You ought to see this
flower under a microscope. I guess I'll go and ask Professor Smith for
hers."

Marian turned around so quickly Professor Smith was unable to get out
of sight. The doll's instructor felt pretty foolish for a moment, but
only for a moment.

"Marian Lee," said Miss Smith, "you shall join the botany class next
Monday morning and I'll give you a book of mine to study."

"What will the big girls say?" gasped Marian.

"About as much as your doll in there," laughed Miss Smith, adding
seriously, "I won't expect too much of you, Marian, but you may as well
be in the class and learn all you can."

On Monday morning, although the big girls smiled and the little girls
stared, Professor Lee became a member of the botany class and learned
to press the wild flowers.

"I won't have the most perfect lessons of anybody in the class,"
Marian confided to her doll, "because the big girls know so much; but
I'll try and have the best specimens in my herbarium. I can do that, I
am sure. I have just got to do something better than any one else in
school before I go home."

The following Saturday the doll listened with unchanging face to a
confession. "Every one of the big girls can press specimens better than
I can. Their violet plants look like pictures but mine look like hay.
I guess Uncle George will be discouraged. I don't do anything best. A
robin is building a nest just outside the window where my seat is in
school and I forgot to study my spelling lesson. Of course I missed
half the words. It was the robin's fault. She ought to keep away from
school children."




CHAPTER XVII

THE COMPOSITION ON WILD FLOWERS


ALL the children in Marian's class were writing in their copy-books
"Knowledge is Power." The pens squeaked and scratched and labored
across pages lighted by June sunshine. The little girls' fingers were
sticky and boy hands were cramped. It was monotonous work. The "K" was
hard to make and the capital "P" was all flourishes.

Marian sighed, then raised her hand.

"What is it?" asked Miss Smith.

"Will you tell which one of us has the best looking page when we get
through with 'Knowledge is Power'?"

Miss Smith consented and Marian, determined to conquer, grasped her pen
firmly and bent to the task. Two days later the page was finished and
seven copy-books were piled upon Miss Smith's desk for inspection. At
first Miss Smith smiled as she examined the various assertions that
"Knowledge is Power," then she grew serious.

"Did you try your best, children?" she asked, whereupon five girls and
two boys looked surprised and hurt.

"Well, then, I wonder what is the trouble?" continued Miss Smith. "I am
ashamed of your work, children, it seems as if you could do better."

"Which is best?" demanded Marian. It made no difference how poor her
copy was if only it was better than the others. The child was sorry she
had asked the question when she knew the truth. "I think it is pretty
discouraging," she said, "when you try your best and do the worst."

"We will begin something new," Miss Smith suggested. "Next week we will
write compositions on wild flowers and to the one who does the neatest
looking work, I will give the little copy of 'Evangeline' I have been
reading to you. It will make no difference whether the compositions are
long or short, but the penmanship must be good. Every one of you knows
the spring flowers for we have had them here in school and have talked
about them every day."

"Will we have to write in our copy-books just the same?" asked Tommy
Perkins.

"No," was the reply; "you may work on your compositions all the time we
usually write in the copy-books, and remember, it doesn't make a bit of
difference how short your compositions are."

That was exactly what Marian did not remember. At first she wrote:

"No flower is so pretty as the anemone that blooms on the windy hill."

At recess she consulted Miss Smith. "Is that long enough?" she asked.

"Yes, that will do," was the reply.

"Is it fair if I copy off her composition?" asked Tommy Perkins, "and
practice writing it? I can't make up one."

"That sentence will do as well as any other," agreed Miss Smith. "I
simply wish you to write something you choose to do."

Marian beamed upon Tommy. "I'll copy it for you," she said. "I don't
really think anemones are the prettiest flowers, Tommy, but they are
easy to write; no ups or downs in the word if the flowers themselves do
dance like fairies all the day long."

"I wish't you'd write me a composition," put in Frankie Bean.

"I will," assented Marian, "after school calls, but now, come on out
and play."

After recess, Marian passed Frankie a piece of paper upon which was
written this:

"Clover loves a sunny home."

"That's easy, Frankie, because 'y' is the only letter below the line.
You can say sun-kissed if you would rather keep it all above the
line. If I don't get the book, may be you will. I hope you won't be
disappointed, though. I would try if I were you. Something may happen
to me before next week, you never can tell."

Monday and Tuesday Marian wrote compositions for the four girls to
copy. They were more particular than the boys had been and their
compositions were longer.

By the time Marian was ready to settle down to her sentence on the
anemone, she was tired of it and determined to write something new.
Soon she forgot all about penmanship and Friday afternoon found her
with a long composition to copy in an hour. Even then, after the first
moment of dismay, she forgot that neatness of work alone, would count.

Miss Virginia Smith read the composition aloud.


"_Wild Flowers, by Marian Lee._

"When you shut your eyes and think of wild flowers, you always want to
open them and fly to the hills and the woods. You wish you had wings
like the birds.

"In an old flower legend book that tells about things most folks don't
know, I found out what you were always sure of before you knew it. The
anemones are fairy blossoms. The pink on the petals was painted by the
fairies and on rainy nights elves hide in the dainty blooms.

"Tulips are not wild, but how can I leave them out when the fairies
used them for cradles to rock their babies in.

"Some folks laugh at you when you hunt for four-leaved clover, but you
can never see the fairies without one nor go to the fairy kingdom.

"The old book says, too, that the bluebells ring at midnight to call
the fairies together. I believe it because I have seen bluebells and
have almost heard the music. I don't believe they ever were witches'
thimbles.

"You most always get your feet wet when you go after marsh marigolds,
but it can't be helped. They are yellow flowers and live where they can
hear the frogs all the time. I wonder if they ever get tired of frog
concerts. I never do, only I think it is mournful music after the sun
goes down. It makes you glad you are safe in the house.

"There is one lovely thing about another yellow flower. It is the
cinquefoil and you find it before the violets come if you know where to
look. On rainy days and in damp weather, the green leaves bend over and
cover the little yellow blossom. The cinquefoil plant must be afraid
its little darling will catch cold.

"If you ever feel cross, the best thing you can do is to go out where
the wild flowers grow. You will be sure to hear birds sing and you may
see a rabbit or a squirrel. Anyway, you will think thoughts that are
not cross."

"Evangeline" was given to Tommy Perkins. He had practiced writing the
anemone sentence until his perfectly written words astonished Miss
Virginia Smith.

"I know my writing isn't good," admitted a little girl named Marian.
"Only see how it goes up-hill and down-hill and how funny the letters
are."




CHAPTER XVIII

MARIAN'S LETTER HOME


MARIAN'S letters to her Uncle George were written on Sunday afternoons.
She wrote pages and pages about Miss Smith and the country school and
begged him not to come for her in August.

"I haven't done anything better than any one else in school yet," she
wrote, "but I am learning all kinds of things and having the best time
ever was. I want to go to the country school until I graduate. I'll be
ready for college before you know it if you will only let me stay.

"I am good all the time because Mrs. Golding says so and Miss Ruth and
Miss Kate take me almost everywhere they go--when they drive to town,
circuses and things and I have lovely times every day.

"I would tell you who I play with only you would forget the names of so
many children. When I can't find any one else I go to the mill to see
the miller's boy. That isn't much fun because the miller's boy is half
foolish. His clothes are always covered with flour and he looks like
a little old miller himself. He jumps out at you when you don't know
where he is and says 'Boo!' and scares you almost out of your wits, and
that makes his father laugh. I tried to teach him to read but I didn't
have good luck. He read 'I see the cat' out of almanacs and everything.

"The old miser died last night, Uncle George, and I saw him in the
afternoon. Only think of it, I saw a man that died. After dinner I went
to see the miller's boy and he wasn't there. His father said he was
wandering along the river bank somewhere, so I stayed and talked to the
miller. Pretty soon the boy came back making crazy motions with his
arms and telling his father the old miser wanted to see him quick.

"I went outside and watched the big wheel of the mill when the boy and
his father went away, but it wasn't any time before the boy came back
and said the old miser wanted to see me. Of course I went as fast as
I could go, and when I got to the hut, the miller asked me if I could
say any Bible verses, and if I could to say them quick because the old
miser wanted somebody to read the Bible quick--quick. I thought it was
queer, Uncle George, but I was glad I had learned so much out of the
Bible.

"The old miser was all in rags and I guess he didn't feel well then,
because he was lying down on a queer old couch and he didn't stir, but
I tell you he watched me. I didn't want to go in the hut, so I stood
in the doorway where I could feel the sunshine all around me. Some
way I thought that wasn't any time to ask questions, so I began the
Twenty-third Psalm right straight off. When I got to the end of that I
was going to say the first fourteen verses of John, but the old miser
raised one hand and said, 'Again--again,' but before I got any further
than 'The valley of the shadow,' he went to sleep looking at me and I
never saw his face so happy. It smoothed all out and looked different.
Poor old miser, the boys used to plague him. The miller motioned to
his boy and me to go away. I guess he was afraid Jakey would wake the
old miser. Of course I knew enough to keep still when a tired looking
old man dropped to sleep.

"I don't know just when the old miser died, Uncle George, nobody talks
about it where I can hear a word. Mrs. Golding says when I grow up
I will be glad that I could repeat the Twenty-third Psalm to a poor
old man who hadn't any friends. She says it isn't true that he was a
miser, he was just an unfortunate old man. I wonder if he was anybody's
grandfather? You never can tell.

"I am well acquainted with all the folks in the village, Uncle George,
and lots of times I go calling. There are some old folks here who never
step outside of their houses and they are glad to have callers. One old
blind woman knits all the time. She likes to be read to, real well. And
there is one woman, the shoemaker's wife, that has six children that
bother her so when she tries to work; she says it does her good to see
me coming.

"Only think, Uncle George, how lonesome I will be when I get home where
I am not acquainted. The only sad thing that has happened here all
summer is that the miser died, and of course you know that might be
worse.

"I would like to be with Miss Smith more than I am but she studies
almost all the time. I don't see what for because she knows everything,
even about the stars. She likes me a great deal but I guess nobody
knows it. You mustn't have favorites when you are a school-teacher, she
told me so.

"You don't know how hard it is, Uncle George, to do something better
than anybody else. You might think it would be easy, but somebody
always gets ahead of you in everything, you can't even keep your desk
the cleanest. Some girls never bring in anything from the woods, so of
course they can keep dusted.

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed in

  "Your loving niece,
   "MARIAN LEE."




CHAPTER XIX

THE MOST TRUTHFUL CHILD IN SCHOOL


IN the early morning the schoolhouse was a quiet place, and there Miss
Virginia Smith went to study. No one knew why she worked so hard,
though Marian often wondered. It was her delight to please Miss Smith,
and when the teacher waited several mornings until a certain mail train
passed and the letters were distributed, Marian offered to stop at the
post-office and get the mail.

"Are you sure you won't lose anything?" asked Miss Smith.

"Sure," promised Marian. "You go to school early as you used to do and
I'll bring your letters when I come."

Usually the postmaster gave Marian something to carry to Miss Smith,
and all went well until a few days before school closed. Elizabeth
Gray called for Marian that morning and together they went to
the post-office where they waited on tiptoe for the postmaster to
distribute the mail. There was one letter for Miss Smith, a thin,
insignificant looking letter.

"That's nothing but an old advertisement," declared Elizabeth; "it
wasn't worth waiting for."

"I guess you're right," agreed Marian, "see what it says in the corner.
What's a seminary, anyway? Do you know?--'Young Ladies' Seminary.' Some
kind of a new fashioned place to buy hats, may be, come on."

"Yes, let's get started before the Prior kids and the Perkinses catch
up with us. I can't bear that Tommy Perkins."

"We could play De Soto if we had a crowd," suggested Marian. "You and
I could be the head leaders and the Priors and the Perkins could be
common soldiers."

"How do you play De Soto?" asked Elizabeth. "I never heard of it."

"You've heard of De Soto, the man that discovered the Mississippi
River, I hope."

"Of course, he's in the history."

"Well, Elizabeth, I've been reading about him in one of Mr. Golding's
books about early explorations and I knew in a minute that it would be
fun to play De Soto on our way to school. Now, I'm De Soto."

"No, I'm going to be De Soto," insisted Elizabeth.

"You don't know how, Elizabeth Jane Gray, and you didn't think of it
first. All right, though, you be De Soto if you want to. What are you
going to do? Begin."

"You always want to be the head one in everything, Marian Lee. You
needn't think I'm Tommy Perkins!"

"I don't, Elizabeth, I think you're that brave Spaniard Moscoso who
was leader of the soldiers after De Soto died and was buried in the
Mississippi River where the Indians couldn't find him. But if you want
to be De Soto, go on, only I don't believe you know a thing about him
except what the history says. Well, you're De Soto."

"You'll have to tell me what to do, Marian."

"I guess not, Miss Elizabeth, if you're De Soto you ought to know."

Elizabeth walked on in silence for a few moments until seized by an
inspiration. "I'll be De Soto to-morrow morning," she remarked; "it's
your turn first, of course, because you thought of the game. I'm--who
did you say I am, Marian?"

"You're Moscoso, one of my officers, Elizabeth. Well, I'm De Soto and
I have had wonderful adventures in my life. I was with Pizarro in the
conquest of Peru and I went back to Spain rich, rich, rich. Now I am
the Governor of Cuba and Florida and not long ago I had orders from
Spain to explore Florida. Of course, Moscoso, you remember all about
it, how we left Cuba with nine ships and landed at Tampa?"

"I remember it, Soty, just as well as if it was yesterday," and
Moscoso, laughing merrily, swung his dinner pail in a perfect circle.

"Don't laugh, Moscoso, at serious things," continued De Soto; "and I
think you really should call me Governor and I'll call you General.
Well, General, we sent most of our ships back to Cuba, and now we're
searching for gold in Florida, not in our little State of Florida, but
the big, wide, long Florida that used to be. Now, Elizabeth, we'll
play wander around for three years, living in Indian villages winters
and camping out summers and having fights and discovering new birds
to write to Spain about and having all kinds of adventures, until we
get to that big ditch at the four corners and that will have to be the
Mississippi River, and we'll cross it. We can tie our handkerchiefs to
sticks for banners.

"Let's play all the trees are Indians and all the little low bushes are
wild beasts. The fences will do for mountains and I guess we'll think
of other things to play as we go along. We'll have trouble with our
soldiers, of course, they always do when they are hunting for gold. All
these fields and woods, no, not woods, forests, I mean, are what you
call the interior. Dandelions and buttercups will be gold that we steal
from the Indians. We'll be awfully disappointed because this isn't a
gold country like Peru, but we will take all there is, and I think we
had better talk some about going home to Spain. Of course I don't know
I'm going to die of fever beyond the Mississippi and you don't know
you'll have to go back to the coast without me. I wish we could talk a
little bit of real Spanish, don't you, Elizabeth?"

"Hush," warned the General from Spain. "I hear Indians. Let's play the
wind in the trees is Indian talk, Marian."

"Sure enough, Elizabeth, we must advance cautiously, General Moscoso,
they always 'advance cautiously' in the books, or else 'beat a hasty
retreat.' We won't dare play retreat or we'll never get to school. Oh,
they're friendly Indians, General, how fortunate."

De Soto had crossed the Mississippi when he grew pale as death and
suddenly deserted his followers. The banners of Spain trailed in the
dust. "Elizabeth Jane Gray, where's that letter?"

Two little girls gazed at each other in dismay.

"Have you lost it?" gasped Elizabeth.

"If I haven't, where is it?" asked Marian.

"Can't you remember anything about it?" Elizabeth went on, "when you
had it last, or anything?"

"No, I can't. Let's go straight back over the road and hunt. I must
have dropped it and perhaps we may find it if we look. I can't believe
it is really lost. Oh, Elizabeth, what shall I do if it is? I adore
Miss Smith and what will she think?"

"She won't think anything if you keep still, Marian; the letter was
only an old advertisement, anyway."

"Oh, dear, dear, dear!" wailed Marian. "This is dreadful. I don't see
a thing that looks like a letter anywhere. I am going to climb a tree
and look way off over the fields." Although the children searched
faithfully, they could not find the letter.

"We'll hunt at noon," suggested Elizabeth, deeply touched by Marian's
distress, "and if I were you I wouldn't say a word about it."

"But Elizabeth, what if she asks me if there was a letter?"

"Fib," was the response.

"It's enough to make anybody, Elizabeth."

"You'll be a goose, Marian, if you own up. I won't tell on you and the
letter didn't amount to anything, anyway. Let's run for all we're worth
and get there before school calls if we can. Sure's we're late she'll
ask questions."

Just as the bell was ringing, two breathless little girls joined their
schoolmates. Their faces were flushed and their hair was tumbled.
Miss Smith smiled when she saw them, but asked no questions. Noticing
Marian's empty hands, she said evidently to herself, "No letter yet!"

"You're going to get out of this as easy's pie, just keep your mouth
shut," whispered Elizabeth.

"I shall have to tell," groaned Marian.

"Don't be silly," Elizabeth advised.

During the morning exercises Marian determined to confess no matter
what happened. When the chart class was called to the recitation seat
she raised her hand and was given permission to speak to Miss Smith.
Marian didn't glance towards Elizabeth Gray as she walked to the desk.
Elizabeth had never stolen cookies. "Miss Smith," said Marian, "you
had a letter this morning and I lost it."

"You dear child, I am so glad you told me," and Miss Smith who had so
often insisted that a school-teacher must never have favorites, put her
arms around the little girl and kissed the soft, brown hair. "Now tell
me what was printed on the envelope if you can remember."

Word for word Marian described the letter.

"It is the one I was expecting," said Miss Smith, and while the chart
class waited, their teacher wrote a letter, stamped it and sent it to
the post-office by Tommy Perkins.

Two days later, Marian carried Miss Smith a letter exactly like the one
she had lost. Miss Smith read it, smiled and asked Marian to stay after
school.

"You're going to get your scolding at last," predicted Elizabeth. "I
told you not to tell."

At four o'clock the children trooped out and flew down the road like
wild birds escaped from a cage, leaving Marian uneasily twisting her
handkerchief while she waited for Miss Smith to speak. Nothing was
said until the sound of childish voices came from a distance. Then Miss
Smith looked up and laughed. "Can you keep a secret for a few days,
Marian?" she asked. "Come here, dear, and read the letter you brought
me this morning."

Marian read the short letter three times before she asked, "Are you
going?"

"Going," echoed Miss Smith; "that is the position I have long wished
for, Marian. Only think how I shall enjoy teaching botany and English
in a boarding-school. You see what they say, Marian, they want an
immediate reply or it will be too late. If you hadn't told me about the
letter you received the other day, I should have lost the position. I
imagined what the letter was and sent for a copy. If you hadn't told me
the truth, Marian, only think what a difference it would have made!"

"I just have to tell the truth," said the little girl.

"I believe you, dear, I never saw a more truthful child in my life."

"Would you dare say I am the most honest child in school?" asked
Marian, a sudden light making her face beautiful. "Will you write it
down and sign your name?"

"Well, you are the queerest mortal," exclaimed Miss Smith, but reaching
for a piece of paper and a pen, she wrote this:

 "Marian Lee is the most truthful pupil in my school.

 "VIRGINIA SMITH, Teacher."

"It's for Uncle George," Marian explained. "He told me to try to
do something better than anybody else and I haven't done it. He's
coming for me Saturday and please do ask him to send me to your
boarding-school. He has often talked about sending me away to school,
but I used to be afraid to go and made a dreadful fuss, and then I had
diphtheria."

Uncle George arrived on Friday in time to have a long talk with Miss
Smith before she left on the evening train. Had Marian known the nature
of their conversation, she might not have cried so bitterly when the
hour of parting came.




CHAPTER XX

MORE CHANGES


MARIAN had been home a month when Uncle George decided to send her to
boarding-school.

"It is a curious thing," he remarked to the child, "that other people
find it so easy to get along with you, and here at home there is no
peace in the house while you are in it."

The man's tones were savage and Marian cried. Tears always angered
Uncle George, and when Uncle George was angry with Marian, Aunt Amelia
generally sighed and straightway did her duty: and Aunt Amelia's duty
towards Marian consisted in giving a detailed account of the child's
faults and a history of her sins. She never failed to mention cookies.
When Marian was wise, she kept still. If she ventured a remonstrance
serious trouble was sure to follow. Out in the fresh air and sunshine,
the child managed to be happy in spite of everything: but within the
four walls of Aunt Amelia's home it took courage to face life. She
didn't know that her uncle had written to Miss Virginia Smith.

"They're going to do something with you, I don't know what," confided
Ella. "I'll let you know as soon's I find out." Ella was as good as
her word. "They're going to send you to boarding-school," was her next
secret announcement, "but when or where, I don't know."

One morning Marian went to her room after breakfast and sat long by the
open window, wondering what would become of her and why she had been
taken from the Little Pilgrim's Home by an aunt who didn't want her.
Tears splashed upon the window sill. Marian wiped her eyes quickly.
Young as she was, the child realized how dangerous it is to be sorry
for oneself. Without a backward glance, Marian walked from the room and
closed the door she was never to open again. When she came home from
school that night, the child played in the orchard until supper-time.
Then she wondered why Aunt Amelia didn't send her to her room. An hour
passed before the woman looked at the clock and spoke. Instead of the
words Marian expected to hear, Aunt Amelia said calmly:

"Your trunk is packed and the carriage is waiting to take you to the
station. Get your coat and hat."

"Where am I going and who is going with me?" demanded the child,
beginning to tremble so she could scarcely stand.

"I shall accompany you," replied Aunt Amelia, "and it makes no
difference where you are going. You will know soon enough."

Marian shot a grateful look towards Ella, who was sobbing in a corner.
But for the little cousin's assurance, Marian would have believed she
was about to start for the long dreaded reform school. Nevertheless
it was a shocking thing to be suddenly torn from every familiar sight
and to be going so blindly into the unknown. Marian looked appealingly
at Aunt Amelia and Uncle George before she broke down and cried. Aunt
Amelia's face was stony, Uncle George looked cross and annoyed.
Marian's grief became wild and despairing.

"I wish I could have my mother's picture to take with me," she sobbed,
"I wish I could."

"That's a reasonable request and you shall have it," said Uncle George.

"It will be time enough when she is older," Aunt Amelia put in, while
Marian held her breath. Would she get the picture or not? A word might
ruin her chances, so she kept still, trying hard to smother her sobs.

"Are you going for the picture or shall I?" demanded Uncle George. Aunt
Amelia went.

Marian was disappointed when she saw the small photograph of her father
and mother. She wished for the face in the oval frame. She would have
been more disappointed had she never seen the photograph, because
instead of giving it to the child or allowing her to look at the
picture, Aunt Amelia wrapped it in a piece of paper and put it in her
own satchel.

Outside in the cool, silent night, Marian stopped crying. There was
comfort in the steadily shining stars. During the first long hours on
the sleeping car, Marian tossed, tumbled and wondered where she was
going. Asleep she dreamed of reform school: awake she feared dreams
might come true. When trains rushed by in the darkness the child was
frightened and shivered at the thought of wrecks. At last she raised
her curtain and watched the stars. Repeating over and over one verse
of the poem she had recited the last day of school in the country, she
fell peacefully asleep. There were no more troubled dreams nor startled
awakenings. When Marian opened her eyes in the morning, the verse still
haunted her memory.

    "I know not where His islands
      Lift their fronded palms in air,
    I only know I cannot drift
      Beyond His love and care."




CHAPTER XXI

MARIAN REMEMBERS HER DIARY


"OCTOBER 15.--You might as well keep a diary, especially in a school
where they have a silent hour. It is the queerest thing I ever heard of
but every night between seven and eight it is so still in this building
you don't dare sneeze. It isn't so bad when you have a roommate because
then you have to divide the hour with her. You stay alone half and then
you go to the reading-room or the library and read something and try
not to whisper to any of the girls, while your roommate stays alone her
half of the hour.

"Perhaps the reason I don't like silent hour is because I used to have
so many of them at home and now because I haven't any roommate I have
to stay alone the whole hour. I don't know what to do with myself and
that is why I am going to keep a diary again.

"There is a good reason why I haven't any roommate. When my aunt
brought me here the principal said they were expecting a little girl
just my age and they were going to put her in this room with me. It
isn't much fun to be a new girl in this kind of a school, especially
when most everybody is older than you are. When the girls saw my aunt
they stared, and they stared at me, too. It wasn't very nice and I felt
uncomfortable. As long as my aunt stayed I didn't get acquainted. I
didn't even dare say much to Miss Smith. I just moped around and wished
I was out in the country with the happy Goldings. They said here, 'Poor
little thing, she's homesick,' but I am sure I wasn't if that means I
wanted to go back home. My aunt stayed two days and one night. She said
she was waiting to see my roommate but at last she gave up and went
home and then I felt different. I began to wonder what kind of a girl
my roommate would be and when she came I was so happy I could scarcely
breathe because she was Dolly Russel. We thought we were going to have
such a good time, and we did for a few days until I was a big goose.
I wrote home and told my aunt who my roommate was and that ended it.
Aunt Amelia wrote to the principal and she wrote to me, and then Dolly
went to room with an old girl eighteen years old, from Kansas.

"Dolly says her new roommate is nice, but she's too old and besides
that she's engaged. Dolly told me all about it.

"My aunt wouldn't let me room with Dolly because she said we would play
all the time instead of studying our lessons. I guess she was afraid
we would have a little fun. She told me in a letter that if she had
known Dolly Russel was coming to this school she would have sent me
somewhere else or kept me at home, no matter what Uncle George and Miss
Smith said. I know why. Dolly has told the Kansas girl and some others
about my aunt already, how cross she is and such things. I don't mind
now what anybody says about Aunt Amelia since I have found out that she
isn't any relation to me. She is just my aunt by marriage and you can't
expect aunts by marriage to love you, and if your aunt doesn't love
you, what's the use of loving your aunt.

"If I hadn't passed the entrance examinations here I couldn't have
stayed. Dolly and a girl whose name is Janey somebody and I are the
only little girls here. Janey is tall and wears her hair in a long,
black braid. Mine's Dutch cut. Dolly Russel's is Dutch cut too. Janey
calls us little kids and she tags around after the big girls. We don't
care.

"October 16.--There's another girl coming from way out west. Her folks
are going to be in Chicago this winter and they want her in this
school. The Kansas girl told Dolly and me.

"October 17.--The new girl has come and they have put her with me.
She's homesick. Her father brought her and then went right away. I
didn't see him. I think I shall like the new girl. Her name is Florence
Weston and she has more clothes than the Queen of Sheba. Miss Smith
helped her unpack and I felt as if I would sink through to China when
the new girl looked in our closet. It is a big closet and the hooks
were nearly all empty because I haven't anything much to hang up. I'll
never forget how I felt when the new girl said to me, 'Where are your
dresses?' Before I could think of anything to say, Miss Smith sent me
for the tack hammer and I didn't have to answer.

"My room looked pretty lonesome after Dolly moved out, but now it is
the nicest room in school because Florence Weston has so many beautiful
things. She says this is horrid and I just ought to see her room at
home. She can't talk about her home without crying. I know I'd cry if I
had to go back to mine.

"October 20.--That Janey is a queer girl. She won't look at me and I
really think it is because I haven't any pretty dresses. She is in our
room half the time, too, visiting with Florence. They are great chums
and they lock arms and tell secrets and laugh and talk about what they
are going to do next summer and where they are going Christmas and
everything. I wish more than ever that I had Dolly for my roommate.
I wouldn't be surprised if her father is richer'n Florence Weston's
father.

"That Janey puts on airs. Her last name is Hopkins. She signs her name
'Janey C. Hopkins.' She never leaves out the 'C,' I wonder why.

"October 21.--I like Florence Weston. She is not a bit like that proud
Janey.

"November 1.--Sometimes I wish I had never come here to school. Once in
a while I feel more lonesome, almost--than I ever did at home. It is on
account of that Janey C. Hopkins. She wants to room with Florence and
she tried to get me to say I would move in with Laura Jones, the girl
she rooms with. Janey says she's going to the principal. Let her go.
Miss Smith told me not to worry, they won't let chums like Florence and
Janey room together because they won't study.

"November 2.--What did I tell you? I knew she'd be sorry. They won't
let Janey room with Florence. Florence says she's glad of it. I suppose
it is on account of hooks. Janey couldn't let her have more than half
the hooks in the closet.

"November 3.--It wasn't on account of hooks. Florence told me one of
Janey's secrets and I know now what the 'C' means in Janey's name and I
know who Janey C. Hopkins is, and I should think she would remember me,
but she doesn't. Janey told Florence that she is adopted and that her
new mother took her from the Little Pilgrims' home before they moved
out to Minnesota. I was so surprised I almost told Florence I came from
that same home, but I am glad I didn't.

"The only reason Florence doesn't want to room with Janey is because
she lived in an orphan's home. She says you never can tell about
adopted children and that maybe Janey's folks weren't nice, and anyway,
that if she ever lived in an orphan's home she would keep still about
it.

"I think I shall keep still, but I could tell Miss Florence Weston one
thing, my folks were nice if they did die. I could tell her what I read
in that newspaper in the sea-chest, how my father just would go to
South America with some men to make his fortune and how after a while
my mother thought he was dead and then she died suddenly and all about
how I happened to be taken to the Little Pilgrims' Home in the strange
city where my mother and I didn't know anybody and nobody knew us.

"I could tell Florence Weston I guess that my father left my mother
plenty of money and she wasn't poor, and after she died the folks she
boarded with stole it all and pretty near everything she had and then
packed up and went away and left me crying in the flat, and it just
happened that some folks on the next floor knew what my name was and a
few little things my mother told them.

"I won't speak of the Little Pilgrims' Home, though, because I can't
forget how Uncle George acted about it. It was a pleasant, happy home
just the same, and when I grow up and can do what I want to I am going
back and hunt for Mrs. Moore and I won't stop until I find her. I have
missed her all my life. You can't help wondering why some mothers live
and some mothers die, and why some children grow up in their own homes
and other children don't have anybody to love them.

"November 4.--Sunday. The queer things don't all happen in books. I am
glad I have a diary to put things in that I don't want to tell Miss
Smith nor Dolly. Just before dark I was in the back parlor with a lot
of girls singing. When we were tired of singing we told stories about
our first troubles. I kept still for once, I really couldn't think
what my first one was anyway. Two or three girls said that when their
mothers died, that was their first sorrow, but Florence Weston said
that her first one was funny. She couldn't remember when her own father
died so she can't count that. The father she has now is a step one.

"Florence says she was a little bit of a girl when her mother took her
one day to visit an orphan's home and she cried because she couldn't
stay and have dinner with the little orphans. She says she remembers
that one of the little girls wanted to go home with her and her mother
and when she cried that little orphan girl cried too. They all laughed
when Florence told her story, all but me. I knew then what my first
sorrow was. What would Florence think if she knew I was that little
orphan? I must never tell her though or she wouldn't room with me. I
should think Florence would be the happiest girl in the world. I should
be if I had her mother. I can see her now if I shut my eyes. Her hair
was shining gold and her eyes were like the sky when the orchard is
full of apple blossoms.

"November 25.--Florence has gone to Chicago to stay until Monday
morning because to-morrow is Thanksgiving day and her folks wanted to
see her. Florence has two baby brothers and one little sister.

"Dolly Russel's father and mother have come here to be with Dolly
to-morrow and they have invited me to have dinner with them down town.
I wonder what Aunt Amelia would say if she knew I am going to be with
the Russels all day to-morrow. Miss Smith got permission for me to go,
she knew what to say to the principal, and she kissed me too, right
before Mrs. Russel. I am already beginning to dread going home next
June.

"Janey C. Hopkins is going home this afternoon and the Kansas girl
is going with her. There will be ten girls all alone in the big
dining-room here to-morrow. I guess they will feel queer. I know one
thing, I would rather stay here with nobody but the matron Christmas,
than to go home, and I am glad Aunt Amelia says it would be foolish for
any one to take such a long journey so I could be home for the holidays.

"Mrs. Russel is going to dress me all up to-morrow in one of Dolly's
prettiest dresses. I do have some streaks of luck."




CHAPTER XXII

FLORENCE WESTON'S MOTHER


MARIAN was studying Monday morning when Florence returned from Chicago.
She burst into the room like a wind blown rose, even forgetting to
close the door until she had hugged Marian and hugged her again.

"Now shut your eyes tight," she commanded, "and don't you open them
until I tell you to. You remember when you asked me if I had a picture
of my mother and I said I hadn't anything only common photographs?
well, you just wait."

Marian closed her eyes while Florence dived into her satchel for a
small package.

"I have something in a little red leather case that will make you
stare, Marian dear, you just wait."

"Well, I am waiting," was the retort, "with my eyes shut so tight I can
see purple and crimson spots by the million. Hurry up, why don't you?
Is it a watch with your mother's picture in it?"

"No, guess again."

"A locket?"

"Dear me, no. It is something--three somethings that cost forty times
as much as a watch or locket. Now open your eyes and look on the
bureau."

"Why don't you say something?" questioned Florence, as Marian stood
speechless before three miniatures in gold frames. "That's my mother
and our baby in the middle frame, and the girl on this side is my
little sister and the boy in the other frame we call brother, just
brother, since the baby came. Why Marian Lee! I never thought of it
before, but you look like brother just as sure as the world!

"Why, Marian! what's the matter, what makes you cry when you look at
mamma's picture?"

"Nothing, Florence, only I want a mother myself, I always wanted one."

"You poor young one!" exclaimed Florence, "it must be dreadful not to
have a mother."

"It's like the Desert of Sahara!" Marian declared, dashing the tears
from her eyes and making an attempt to smile. "You will see your mother
again soon."

"I know it, Marian, only think, three weeks more and then the holidays.
Are you going home Wednesday night or Thursday morning?"

"I am not going home until June," was the reply.

"Can you stand it as long as that, Marian?"

The mere thought of feeling badly about not being home for the holidays
made the child laugh.

"You are the queerest girl," exclaimed Florence, "you cry when I don't
see anything to cry about and you laugh when I should think you would
cry."

Marian checked an impulse to explain. How could Florence understand?
Florence, whose beautiful mother smiled from the round, gold frame,
the girl whose sister and brothers waited to welcome her home.

"If they were mine," said Marian, gazing wistfully at the miniatures,
"I would never leave them. I would rather be a dunce than go away to
school."

"Then my father wouldn't own you," said Florence, laughing. "Mamma
says she's afraid he wouldn't have any patience if I disgraced him
in school. You ought to belong to him, Marian, he would be proud of
you. You know your lessons almost without studying and you have higher
standings than the big girls. You've been highest in all your classes
so far, haven't you?"

"Yes," was the reply, "except in geometry, but what of it? Nobody
cares."

"Don't your folks at home? Aren't they proud of you?"

"I used to hope they would be, Florence; but I tell you, nobody cares."

"Well, haven't you any grandfathers or grandmothers or other aunts or
uncles?"

"I am not acquainted with them," said Marian. "My uncle hasn't any
folks, only distant cousins."

"That's just like my father," Florence interrupted. "His folks are all
dead, though I have heard him mention one half brother with whom he
wasn't friends. Mamma won't let me ask any questions about him. But,
Marian, where are your mother's folks?"

Where were they, indeed? Marian had never thought of them. "Well, you
see," the child hastily suggested, "they don't live near us."

The next time Florence saw Dolly Russel, she asked some questions
that were gladly answered. "Go home!" exclaimed Dolly, "I shouldn't
think she would want to go home! You see the St. Claires live right
across the street from us and I have seen things with my own eyes that
would astonish you. Besides that, a girl that used to work for the St.
Claires, her name is Lala, works for us now, and if she didn't tell
things that would make your eyes pop out of your head! Shall I tell
you how they used to treat that poor little Marian? She's the dearest
young one, too--Lala says so--only mamma has always told me that it's
wretched taste to listen to folks like Lala."

"Yes, do tell me," insisted Florence, and by the time Dolly Russel had
told all she knew, Florence Weston was in a high state of indignation.

"Oh, her uncle and her little cousin are all right," remonstrated
Dolly; "they are not like the aunt."

"I know what I shall do," cried Florence. "Oh, I know! I shall tell
mamma all about Marian and ask if I may invite her to Chicago for the
holidays. She would have one good time, I tell you. I like Marian
anyway, she is just as sweet as she can be. I should be miserable if
I were in her place, but she sings all the day long. My little sister
would love her and so would brother and the baby. I am going straight
to my room and write the letter this minute."

"Mrs. St. Claire won't let Marian go," warned Dolly; "you just wait and
see. She doesn't want Marian to have one speck of fun."

Nevertheless Florence Weston wrote the letter to her mother and
in due time came the expected invitation. At first Marian was too
overjoyed for words: then she thought of Aunt Amelia and hope left her
countenance. "I know what I will do," she said at last, "I will ask
Miss Smith to write to Uncle George. Maybe then he will let me go.
Nobody knows how much I want to see your mother."

Florence laughed. "I think I do," she said. "I have told my mother how
you worship her miniature. I shouldn't be surprised to come in some day
and find you on your knees before it. My mother is pretty and she is
lovely and kind, but I don't see how anybody could care so much for her
picture. Most of the girls just rave over brother, but you don't look
at him. Just wait until you see him, Marian. I'll teach him to call you
sister. He says 'Ta' for sister."

"Oh, I wish you would," said Marian, "I love babies and I never was
anybody's sister of course. He is just as cunning as he can be. I am
going now to ask Miss Smith to write to Uncle George. She can get him
to say yes if anybody can."

Miss Smith wrote and rewrote the letter, then waited for an answer
with even less patience than Marian. At last it came, in Aunt Amelia's
handwriting. Marian's heart sank when she saw the envelope. Her fears
were well founded. Aunt Amelia was surprised to find that Marian knew
no better than to trouble Miss Smith as she had. She might have known
that Uncle George would not approve of her going to a city the size
of Chicago to pass the holidays with strangers. Miss Smith, Dolly and
Florence were indignant. Even Janey did some unselfish sputtering.

"Anything's better than going home," Marian reasoned at last, "and
what's the use of crying about what you can't help. I ought to be glad
it isn't June."

As a matter of fact, the holidays passed pleasantly for Marian in the
big deserted house. The matron and the teachers who were left did
everything in their power to please the child, and on Christmas Day
the postman left her more gifts than she had ever received before.
There were no potatoes in her stocking that year. During the holidays,
Marian kept the photograph of her own mother beside the miniatures, and
as the days went by she became convinced that her mother and Florence
Weston's mother looked much alike.

"My mother is prettier," she said aloud the last day of the old year,
"but she is dead and as long as I live I never can see her. Perhaps I
may see this other mother and perhaps she may love me. I shall have
to put my picture away because it will get faded and spoiled, and I
think I will pretend that Florence Weston's mother is my mother. Then I
won't feel so lonesome. I never thought of pretending to have a mother
before."

When Florence returned after the holidays, she was unable to account
for the change in Marian. The child was radiantly happy. Tears no
longer filled her eyes when she gazed too intently upon the miniatures.
Instead, she smiled back at the faces and sometimes waved her hand to
them when she left the room. How could Florence dream that Marian had
taken the little brothers, the sister and the mother for her own.




CHAPTER XXIII

HOW MARIAN CROSSED THE RAINBOW BRIDGE


JUNE sent her messengers early. Every blade of grass that pushed its
way through the brown earth, every bursting lilac bud or ambitious
maple, spoke to Marian of June. Returning birds warbled the story and
the world rejoiced. Teachers and pupils alike talked of June until it
seemed to Marian that all nature and educational institutions had but
one object, and that was to welcome June. She dreaded it. June meant
Aunt Amelia and the end of all happiness. Yet Marian was only one.
Ninety-nine other girls were looking eagerly forward to the close of
school. They talked of it everywhere and at all hours.

It was the one subject of conversation in which Marian had no share,
one joy beyond her grasp. Try hard as she would, Marian couldn't
pretend to be glad she was going home. That was a game for which she
felt no enthusiasm. The mother, the little sister and the baby brothers
in the golden frames would soon be gone, and gone forever. "We're all
going back West just as soon as school closes," Florence had told her.
"Next winter we will be home."

Nor was that all that Florence told Marian. She pictured the beautiful
home in the West in the midst of her father's broad lands. She
described her room, all sunshine and comfort, and the great house
echoing with music and laughter. She told Marian of the gardens and
the stables, of the horses, ponies and many pets. She described the
river and the hills and the mountain peaks beyond. Florence almost
forgot the presence of her wide eyed roommate in telling of the holiday
celebrations at home and of the wondrous glory of the annual Christmas
tree. Best of all, Florence spoke tenderly of her mother and her voice
grew tender in speaking of the woman who never scolded but was always
gentle and kind; the beautiful mother with the bright, gold hair.
Florence had so much to say about the little sister, brother and the
baby, that Marian felt as if she knew them all.

Thus it was that Florence Weston was going home and Marian Lee was
returning to Aunt Amelia. Miss Smith understood all about it and it
grieved her. She had seen Aunt Amelia and that was enough. She didn't
wonder that Marian's eyes grew sad and wistful as the days lengthened.
At last Miss Virginia Smith thought of a way to win smiles from Marian.
The botany class had been offered a prize. A railroad president,
interested in the school had promised ten dollars in gold to the member
of the botany class who made the best herbarium. Marian might not
win the prize, but it would give her pleasure to try. She would have
something more agreeable to think of than Aunt Amelia.

It was with some difficulty that Miss Smith obtained permission from
the principal for Marian to enter the class, and but for the experience
in the country school, the objection that Marian was too young would
have barred her out. Miss Smith was right. Marian was delighted and for
hours at a time Aunt Amelia vanished from her thoughts. The members of
the botany class were surprised that such a little girl learned hard
lessons so easily, but Miss Smith only laughed.

In the beginning when the spring flowers came and every wayside bloom
suggested a specimen, fully half the class intended to win the prize,
Marian among the number. One by one the contestants dropped out as
the weeks passed, leaving Marian with perhaps half a dozen rivals. At
that early day, Miss Virginia Smith, who had no favorites, rejoiced
secretly in the belief that Marian would win the prize. The commonest
weed became beautiful beneath her hands and the number of specimens
she found on the school grounds alone, exceeded all previous records.
There was never so much as a leaf carelessly pressed among Marian's
specimens. At last the child began to believe the prize would be hers
and for the first time, going home lost its terrors.

If she won the prize, Uncle George would be proud of her and she would
be happy. Finally Marian wrote to her uncle, telling him of the glories
of commencement week. She was to recite "The Witch's Daughter" at the
entertainment, to take part in the operetta and to sing commencement
morning with three other little girls. More than that, she was sure to
win the prize, even her rivals admitted it. "Now Uncle George," the
letter proceeded, "please be sure and come because I want somebody that
is my relation to be here. Florence Weston says her father would come
from Honolulu to see her win a prize, so please come, Uncle George, or
maybe Florence will think nobody cares for me."

Marian was scarcely prepared to receive the answer that came to her
letter from Aunt Amelia. Uncle George was too busy a man to take so
long a journey for nothing. Aunt Amelia would come the day after
commencement and pack Marian's trunk. So far as winning the prize
was concerned, Uncle George expected Marian to win a prize if one
were offered. That was a small way to show her gratitude for all that
had been done for her. The child lost the letter. Janey C. Hopkins
found and read it. Before sunset every one of the ninety-nine knew
the contents. When night settled down upon the school, one hundred
girls were thinking of Aunt Amelia, one in tears, the ninety-nine with
indignation.

The following morning Marian replied to her aunt's letter, begging to
be allowed to go home with Dolly Russel and her mother, and assuring
Aunt Amelia that she could pack her own trunk. Even that request was
denied. Aunt Amelia would call for Marian the day after commencement
and she wished to hear nothing further on the subject. She might have
heard more had she not been beyond sound of the ninety-nine voices.
Marian was too crushed for words. That is, she was crushed for a day.
Her spirits revived as commencement week drew near and Miss Smith and
the ninety-nine did so much to make her forget everything unpleasant.
Marian couldn't understand why the girls were so kind nor why Janey
C. Hopkins took a sudden interest in her happiness. The Sunday before
commencement Marian wore Janey's prettiest gown to church. It was
rather large for Marian but neither she nor Janey found that an
objection. Miss Smith approved and Sunday was a bright day for Aunt
Amelia's little niece.

Monday, Dolly Russel's mother came and thanks to her, Marian appeared
in no more garments that had disgraced the hooks in her closet. She
danced through the halls in the daintiest of Dolly's belongings, and
was happy as Mrs. Russel wished her to be.

Every hour brought new guests and in the excitement of meeting nearly
all the friends of the ninety-nine and being kissed and petted by
ever so many mothers, Marian forgot Aunt Amelia. Tuesday evening at
the entertainment she did her part well and was so enthusiastically
applauded, her cheeks grew red as the sash she wore, and that is saying
a great deal, as Dolly's sash was a bright scarlet, the envy of the
ninety-nine.

Florence Weston's father and mother were present at the entertainment,
but Marian looked for them in vain. "They saw you just the same,"
Florence insisted when she and Marian were undressing that night, "and
mamma said if it hadn't been so late she would have come up to our room
to-night, but she thought they had better get back to the hotel and
you and I must settle down as quickly as we can. I can hardly keep my
eyes open." Florence fell asleep with a smile upon her face. Marian's
pillow was wet with tears before she drifted into troubled dreams of
Aunt Amelia.

"Isn't it too bad!" exclaimed Florence the next morning. "They are
going to present the prize in the dining-room at breakfast and my
father and mother won't be up here until time for the exercises in the
chapel. I wanted them to see you get the prize. I'm so disappointed.
Never mind, though, you will see mamma all the afternoon, because she
is going to pack my things. We leave to-morrow. I am going down-town
with papa and mamma when we get through packing and stay all night. You
will have the room all to yourself. What? are you crying, Marian? Why,
I'll come back in the morning and see you before I go. I wouldn't cry
if I were you!"

It was easy enough for a girl who had every earthly blessing to talk
cheerfully to a weary little pilgrim.

Marian experienced the bitterest moment of her life when the prize
was presented in the dining-room. There were many fathers and mothers
there, and other relatives of the ninety-nine who joined in cheering
the little victor. Yet Marian wept and would not be comforted. Even
Miss Smith had no influence. In spite of the sympathetic arms that
gathered her in, Marian felt utterly forsaken. She had won the prize,
but what could it mean to a motherless, fatherless, almost homeless
child? After breakfast, Marian, slipping away from Miss Smith and the
friendly strangers, sought a deserted music room on the fourth floor
where she cried until her courage returned: until hope banished tears.
Perhaps Uncle George would be pleased after all.

"Where have you been?" demanded Florence when Marian returned to her
room. "I have hunted for you everywhere. What a little goose you were
to cry in the dining-room. Why, your eyes are red yet."

The only answer was a laugh as Marian bathed her tear-stained face.

"I want you to look pretty when mamma sees you," continued Florence,
"so don't you dare be silly again."

In spite of the warning, Marian was obliged to seek the obscurity of
the fourth floor music room later in the day, before she thought of
another refuge--Miss Smith's room. The sight of so many happy girls
with their mothers was more than she could endure and Miss Smith
understood. Even the thought of seeing Florence Weston's mother was a
troubled one, for alas! she couldn't beg to go with the woman as she
once did in the Little Pilgrims' Home.

When the child was sure that Florence and her mother were gone and
while Miss Smith was busy in the office, she returned to her room. "The
trunks are here yet," observed Marian, "but may be they won't send for
them until morning," and utterly worn out by the day's excitement, the
child threw herself upon the bed and sobbed in an abandonment of grief.

Half an hour later the door was opened by a woman who closed it softly
when she saw Marian. "Poor little dear," she whispered, and bending
over the sleeping child, kissed her. Marian was dreaming of her mother.

"Poor little dear," repeated the woman, and kissed her again. That
kiss roused the child. Opening her eyes, she threw her arms around the
woman's neck, exclaiming wildly,

"My mother, oh, my mother!"

"But I am not your mother, dear," remonstrated the woman, trying to
release herself from the clinging arms. "I am Florence Weston's mother.
I have come for her little satchel that we forgot. Cuddle down, dear,
and go to sleep again."

At that, Marian seemed to realize her mistake and cried so pitifully,
Florence Weston's mother took her in her arms and sitting in a low
rocker held Marian and tried to quiet her.

The door opened and Florence entered. "Why mamma, what is the matter?"
she began, but without waiting for a reply, she was gone, returning in
a moment with her father. "Now what is the matter with poor Marian?"
she repeated.

"Nothing," explained Marian, "only everything."

"She thought I was her mother, Florence, the poor little girl; there,
there, dear, don't cry. She was only half awake and she says I look
like her mother's picture."

"You do, you look just like the picture," sobbed Marian.

"What picture?" asked the man; "this child is the image of brother.
What picture, I say?"

"Oh, she means mamma's miniature," said Florence.

"I don't mean the miniature," Marian interrupted, "I mean my own
mother's picture," and the child, kneeling before her small trunk
quickly found the photograph of her father and mother. "There! doesn't
she look like my mother?"

There was a moment of breathless silence as Florence Weston's father
and mother gazed at the small card. The woman was the first to speak.

"Why, Richard Lee!" she exclaimed. "That must be a photograph of you!"

"It is," was the reply, "it is a picture of me and of my dead wife, but
the baby died too."

"Well, I didn't die," cried Marian. "I was two months old when my
father went away, and when my mother died, the folks wrote to the place
where my father was the last time they knew anything about him, and I
s'pose they told him I was dead, but I wasn't, and that's my mother.
Uncle George knows it----"

"Uncle George, my brother George," for a moment it was the man who
seemed to be dreaming. Then a light broke over his face as he snatched
Marian and said, "Why, little girl, you are my child."

"And my mother will be your mother," Florence put in, "so what are you
and mamma crying about now?"

"Didn't you ever hear," said Marian, smiling through her tears, "that
sometimes folks cry for joy?"

It was unnecessary for Aunt Amelia to take the long journey. Marian's
father telegraphed for Uncle George who arrived the next day with
papers Marian knew nothing about, proving beyond question the identity
of the child.

The little girl couldn't understand the silent greeting between the
brothers, nor why Uncle George was so deeply affected when she talked
of his kindness to her and the many happy days she thanked him for
since he found her in the Little Pilgrims' Home. Neither could she
understand what her father meant when he spoke of a debt of gratitude
too deep for words.

Marian only knew that unpleasant memories slipped away like a dream
when Uncle George left her with her father and mother: when he smiled
and told her he was glad she was going home.

         *       *       *       *       *

                            Transcriber Notes

            Tags that surround the words: _fish_ indicate italics.
                                          =Gladys= indicate bold.

            Words in small capitals are shown in UPPERCASE.

            Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

            Free use of quotes, typical of the time, is retained.

        +------------------------------------------------------------+