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.