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."