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_LITTLE MAID MARIAN_
[Illustration: "BE YE REMOVED INTO THE MIDST OF THE SEA"]
LITTLE MAID
MARIAN
BY
AMY E. BLANCHARD
_Author of "Little Sister Anne," "Mistress May," "Playmate
Polly," "Three Little Cousins," etc._
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1908, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS AND COMPANY
_Published July, 1908_
_All rights reserved_
Printed in U. S. A.
_CONTENTS_
I. A MUSTARD SEED 9
II. THE SCHOOL-TEACHER 27
III. A NEW ROAD 47
IV. COMPANIONS 67
V. BLACKBERRIES 87
VI. THE WHITE APRON 105
VII. PATTY'S LETTER 125
VIII. A TRIP TO TOWN 143
IX. A VISIT TO PATTY 161
X. RUNNING AWAY 179
XI. A LETTER'S REPLY 199
XII. THE CHRISTMAS TREE 217
_CHAPTER I_
_A Mustard Seed_
The cat and kitten were both eating supper and Marian was watching
them. Her own supper of bread and milk she had finished, and had
taken the remains of it to Tippy and Dippy. Marian did not care very
much for bread and milk, but the cat and kitten did, as was plainly
shown by the way they hunched themselves down in front of the tin
pan into which Marian had poured their supper.
In the next room Grandpa and Grandma Otway were sitting and little
bits of their talk came to Marian's ears once in a while when her
thoughts ceased to wander in other directions. "If only one could
have faith to believe implicitly," Grandma Otway said.
"If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, and should say to that
mountain, be ye removed," quoted Grandpa Otway.
Marian sighed. They talked that way very often, she remembered, and
she herself had grown to consider it quite as difficult as did her
grandmother, to exercise complete faith. She had made numberless
mighty efforts, and yet things did not come out as she supposed they
ought. She sat gravely watching the cat and kitten lap up the last
drop of milk and carefully clean the sides of the pan in a manner
quite inelegant for humans, but no doubt entirely a matter of
etiquette in cat society, and then when Tippy, having done her
duty by the pan, turned her attention to making Dippy tidy,
Marian walked slowly away.
The sun was setting behind the hills, and touching the tops of the
trees along their base; further away the mountains were very dark
against a yellow line of sky. Marian continued her way thoughtfully
toward the garden, turned off before she reached the gate and
climbed a ladder which leaned against the side of the old brick
wall. From the ladder one could reach a long limb of a scraggy apple
tree upon which hung early apples nearly ripe. Marian went up the
ladder very carefully, taking care not to catch her frock upon a
nail or a projecting twig as she crept along the stout limb to
settle herself in a crotch of the tree. From this spot she could see
the distant sea, pinky purple, and shimmering silver.
Marian did not gaze at this, however, but turned her face toward the
mountains. She clasped her hands tightly and repeated firmly: "Be ye
removed into the midst of the sea. Be ye removed into the midst of
the sea." Then she waited, but the mountain did not budge an inch,
though the child kept her eyes fixed upon it. Twice, three times,
she repeated the words, but the mountain remained immovable. "I knew
it; I just knew it," exclaimed the child when she had made her final
effort, "and now I want to know how large a mustard seed is.
To-morrow I'll go ask Mrs. Hunt."
It was to Mrs. Hunt that she took all such questions, for she
hesitated to talk of very personal things to her grandparents. They
would ask her such sharp questions, and sometimes would smile in a
superior way when they did not say: "Oh, that is not a subject to
discuss with children; run along and play with Tippy." She did not
always want to be playing with Tippy when such mighty problems were
uppermost. She had many times tested her faith with the mountain,
but had always come away humiliated by the thought that her faith
must be too weak.
Though she brought her test to bear upon the mountain there was
another thing she did not dare to experiment with, though she always
intended to do so when the mountain should answer her command to be
removed. To be sure it would not make much difference to her if the
mountain should remove into the sea; it probably looked quite as
well where it was, and Marian supposed that no one would care to
have its place changed, but it made a great and mighty difference to
her about this other thing. She had never breathed her ardent wish
to any one, not even to Mrs. Hunt, and now that this fresh test of
faith had failed she would have to gather up a new stock before she
could try again.
The purple and pink and gold were fading; the sea looked gray; the
distant mountain was hidden under a cloud when Marian climbed down
from her perch to answer her grandmother's call: "Marian, Marian,
where are you? Come in out of the night air; the dew is falling."
Dippy was chasing moths in the garden as Marian took her way toward
the house. She watched him leaping up as each soft-winged creature
flitted by. When he failed to catch his prize he opened his mouth in
a mute meow, and looked at Marian as if asking her to help him.
"You mustn't catch moths, Dippy," said Marian. "They might disagree
with you. I should think anyhow, that they would be very dry eating,
and besides it is wicked to destroy innocent little creatures. Come,
you must go in with me." But this was the time of day when Dippy
liked specially to prance and jump and skurry after dusky, shadowy,
flitting things, so before Marian could pounce upon him, he was off
and away like a streak and could not be found. Then Marian went in
obediently at her grandmother's second call to spend the rest of her
evening sitting soberly by, while her grandmother knitted and her
grandfather read his evening paper.
She had tidied up her room, fed the cat and kitten, and darned her
stockings the next morning before she was free to go to Mrs. Hunt's.
Grandpa would go for the mail, and there were no errands to do,
except to return a plate to Mrs. Parker. It had come with some
spicy cakes for grandma, and must be taken back promptly.
The garden did not attract her just then, for it looked much
less mysterious by daylight. There was a fine array of poppies,
larkspurs, phlox and snapdragons; the oleander in its green tub was
all a-bloom, and there were six newly opened buds on the rose-bush.
Dippy was fast asleep in the sunshine, as if he, too, realized that
the garden was not so alluring by morning light.
It seemed no time to exercise faith upon the mountain, for a haze
covered it, and one could not feel even the near presence of a thing
one could not see, so why attempt to address a command to it to be
removed; to all intents and purposes it was removed when it was out
of sight.
Marian thought all this over as she trotted down the village street
to Mrs. Hunt's. Hers was one of a line of long low white houses set
back among trees. A border gay with nasturtiums, sweet peas, and
marigolds flourished each side the front door, but Marian did not
pause there; she went around to the kitchen where she knew Mrs. Hunt
would be this time of day. There was a strong odor of spices,
vinegar and such like filling the air. "Mrs. Hunt is making
pickles," said Marian to herself; "that is why she was gathering
cucumbers the last time I was here. I would rather it were cookies
or doughnuts, but I suppose people can't make those every day."
True enough, Mrs. Hunt was briskly mixing spices, but she turned
with a smile to her little visitor. "Well, chickadee," she said,
"how goes it to-day?"
"Oh, very well," returned Marian vaguely. "Mrs. Hunt, how big is a
mustard seed?"
For answer Mrs. Hunt put her fingers down into a small wooden box,
withdrew them, opened Marian's rosy palm, and laid a pinch of seeds
upon it. "There you are," she said. "I wish I could get at all the
things I want to see as easy as that."
Marian gazed curiously at the little yellow seeds. "They're not very
big, are they?" she said.
"Not very."
"Then you wouldn't have to have much faith," Marian went on,
following out her thought.
Mrs. Hunt laughed. "Is that the text that's bothering you? What are
you, or who are you, trying to have faith in? Tippy? Has she fooled
you again by hiding another batch of kittens?"
"No, Mrs. Hunt," Marian shook her head "it isn't Tippy; she is all
right, and so is Dippy, but you know if you want a thing very much
and don't see anyway of getting it ever, till you are grown up and
won't care about it, why it makes you feel as if--as if"--she
lowered her voice to a whisper and looked intently at her listener,
"as if either you were very wicked or as if--that about the mustard
seed--as if"--she hesitated, then blurted out hurriedly, "as if it
weren't true."
"Why, Marian Otway, of course it must be true," declared Mrs. Hunt.
"Then I'm very wicked," returned Marian with conviction.
"Why, you poor innocent, of course you are not. We are all more or
less imperfect creatures, I suppose, but--well, all is, if I were
your grandma, I wouldn't let you bother your head about such things.
It is hard enough for the preachers to settle some things for us and
themselves, so how do you suppose a baby like you is going to get
the gist of it?"
"If you were my grandma what would you do?" asked Marian coming to
the point.
"I'd give you interesting story-books to read, and see that you had
healthy-minded playfellows. You ought to be going to school; you are
enough bigger than my Annie was when she first went." This was a
point upon which Mrs. Hunt felt very keenly. She thought Mr. and
Mrs. Otway had not the proper ideas about bringing up children and
that Marian was too much with older persons. "I would send her off
to school quick as a wink," she had more than once said to Mrs.
Otway, but her remark had been received with only a smile, and one
could not follow out an argument when another would not argue, so
kind Mrs. Hunt had been able only to air her opinions to Mrs.
Perkins and her other neighbors, and once in a while to let Marian
know how she felt about her.
She had lost a little girl about Marian's age and made a point of
being especially good to the old-fashioned child who lived in the
brick house at the end of the street. The other houses were all
white or gray or brown, built plainly, and were either shingled or
clap-boarded affairs so that the brick house was a thing apart and
its occupants were usually considered the aristocracy of the place.
The older men called Grandpa Otway, "Professor," and the younger
ones said, "Good-morning, doctor," when they met him.
At the college where he had taught for many years he was still
remembered as an absent-minded, gentle but decided person, strong in
his opinions, proud and reticent, good as gold, but finding it hard
to forgive the only son who left home and married against the wishes
of his parents. When baby Marian's mother died her father had
written home, asking that his motherless baby might be taken in and
reared in the American land which he still loved. So one day Marian
arrived in charge of a plain German couple, but her father had not
seen her since and he still lived in far off Berlin. Once a year he
wrote to his little daughter and she answered the letter through her
grandmother. The letter always came the first of the year and the
latest one had given an account of a German Christmas. It had
enclosed some money for Marian to provide trinkets for her own
tree the next year.
Yet, alas,--and here came the tragedy--Marian had never been
allowed to have a tree; her grandparents did not approve of such
things; the money must go to the missions in foreign lands, and when
the next missionary box was sent Marian's Christmas money was sent
with it in one form or another. Even if Grandpa and Grandma Otway
had known what rebellious tears Marian shed and how she told Tippy
that she hated the heathen, and that she didn't see why they
couldn't go barefoot in a country as hot as China, and why they
couldn't eat rice as well as she, and why missionaries had to have
all sorts of things she didn't have, even if her grandparents had
known that, they would have said that it showed a wrong spirit and
that a little girl bid fair to become a hardened sinner, so she
ought to be made to sacrifice her own pleasures to so good a cause.
That would have been the least of it, for there would also have been
a long lecture from both grandfather and grandmother with a longer
prayer following and there would probably have been an order that
Marian must go without butter for a week that she might be taught to
practice self-denial. So Marian had thought it wise to say nothing
but to accept with as good a grace as possible the bitter necessity
of giving up her Christmas tree.
With the mustard seeds folded in her hand she stood watching Mrs.
Hunt tie up her spices, but the seeds were forgotten when Mrs. Hunt
said: "What will you do with a teacher living in your house and you
not going to school, I'd like to know. Mr. Hunt says he rather
guesses you'll not stay at home, but Mrs. Perkins says like as not
your grandma will have her teach you out of hours and pay her board
that way. As long as she is the daughter of a friend your grandpa
would want to make it easy for her and they'll fix it up some way."
Marian could scarcely believe her ears. "Coming to our house? Who is
she? What is her name, Mrs. Hunt? When is she coming? Who told you?"
"Dear bless me, what a lot of questions. Take care and don't get
your sleeve in that vinegar; it'll take all the color out. I'll wipe
it up and then you can lean on the table all you want to. There.
Well, you see it was Mrs. Leach told me. It seems this Miss Robbins
is the daughter of one of the professors at the college where your
grandpa was for so many years. He was one of the younger men, Mr.
Robbins was, being a student under your grandpa when he first knew
him. Now he is one of the professors with a big family and none too
well off, so his girl is coming to teach our school and Mr. Robbins
asked your grandpa if he wouldn't let her board at his house. She's
the eldest, but she hasn't been away from home much because she's
had to look after her younger brothers and sisters since her mother
died. Professor Robbins feels sort of anxious about her; he is
afraid of the wicked wiles of a big city like Greenville."
"Why, Mrs. Hunt, it isn't a big city, is it?" said Marian
innocently.
"Ain't it?" laughed Mrs. Hunt. "At all events he didn't want her
cast loose on it, and so he wrote to your grandpa, appealingly, I
should say, for it's fixed up that she is to come to the brick house
when the fall term begins and that's not far off."
"Oh!" Marian slipped down from the wooden chair upon which she had
seated herself, "I'd better go home and ask about it," she remarked.
"I'd much rather have some one beside grandpa teach me; he uses
such terribly long words and talks so long about things I don't
understand. Sometimes I can't make out whether I'm very stupid or
whether the lessons are extra hard."
"I guess you're no more stupid than the usual run of children," said
Mrs. Hunt stirring her pickles, "and I guess you will learn as much
about Miss Robbins and her affairs from me as you will at home. But
there, go 'long if you want to. Come in to-morrow; I'll be baking
cookies," she called after the child.
Marian answered with a nod as she looked back. Between the door and
the steps she halted once to open her hand and look for the mustard
seeds, but in her interest in Mrs. Hunt's news she had let them fall
to the floor and but one clung to her moist fingers. She tasted it
and found it strong and biting. "It can't be the bigness," she
murmured; "it must mean the hotness and strongness." This view of
the matter gave her a better understanding, according to her own
ideas, and she was glad she had tasted the small seed. After all,
there were pleasant things opening up. What if she could not move
mountains, there would be fresh cookies to-morrow and out of
somewhere a beautiful young lady was advancing toward her, not
exactly a playfellow, maybe, but some one much younger than
Grandpa and Grandma Otway.
_CHAPTER II_
_The School-Teacher_
The brick house had not the cheerful air of Mrs. Hunt's
white-boarded, green-shuttered abode. It was set back a few
feet from the side-walk, but a brick wall on each side shut out
any glimpse of the flower garden, and the iron railing leading
up from the flight of steps gave the place an air unlike the
rest of the village houses. Upon the top step Dorothy Robbins
stood a few moments before she rang the bell. She cast an upward
glance at the windows first; the shutters were all bowed and
silence reigned everywhere. She wondered what was behind the
brick wall, and if the inmates of the house would look as
forbidding and inhospitable as the house itself. She knew
the Otways had a little granddaughter and half looked to see
the child hanging on the gate or skipping down the path as she
approached the house. The door-bell clanged solemnly and presently
a sedate, middle-aged woman came to the door.
"Is Mrs. Otway at home?" asked Miss Dorothy.
"No, ma'am, she ain't," was the reply given most ungraciously.
"She's to a missionary society or a temperance meeting or something,
and he's gone with her."
"Is no one at home?"
"I'm here, and Marian's somewhere about, I guess. Was you
calculatin' to show goods or solicit anythin'? We hain't no
call for dress-makers' charts, and we don't want to subscribe
to no cook-books, I'm cook-book enough myself."
Dorothy smiled. "Oh, no. I don't make my living that way," she
answered cheerfully. "Perhaps I'd better see the little girl,
Miss----" she added after a few moments' thought.
"Hepzibah Toothacre is my name," remarked the gaunt woman as she
turned away leaving the young lady standing on the step.
Dorothy made a wry face. "Toothacre or some kind of acher I should
think," she said to herself. "She looked sour enough to be several
kinds of ache rolled in one. I hope the rest of the family are not
like that."
She did not have to wait long before a little girl came along the
dim entry toward her. She was brown-haired, brown-eyed, dark-skinned
and rather pale. She wore a plain blue gingham frock, and her hair
was tied in two pig-tails with a narrow black ribbon. She paused
timidly at sight of a stranger, but at Miss Dorothy's smile she came
forward eagerly. "Oh, are you--are you----" she began.
"The new teacher?" interrupted Miss Dorothy. "Yes, dear, I am. May
I come in? The ogress that guards your castle looked as if she might
make a meal of me and I was afraid to come any further."
Marian looked puzzled for a moment, then her face broke into a
smile. "Oh, you mean Heppy. She is rather cross sometimes. She
was not very polite not to ask you in, but she is in a bad humor
to-day; there were two peddlers here this morning and she can't
bear peddlers."
"She thought I was one, and that was why she was so grouchy,
I see."
"I will go and ask her to show you to your room," returned Marian;
"it is all ready."
"Can't you show me?" asked Miss Dorothy with whimsical anxiety in
her tones.
Marian laughed; she knew that Miss Dorothy was only pretending to be
afraid of Heppy, and the pretense made her seem more like a little
girl. "Of course I can show you up," she made answer. "Grandma
didn't expect you till the late train and she had to go to her
missionary society; she's president of the board, you see."
"Oh, yes, I quite understand. I didn't suppose, myself, that I
could get here till the late train, but I was able to make better
connections than I expected and here I am. My trunk will be along
after awhile. You are Maid Marian, I know, but I do not see the
greenwood and where are Robin Hood and his merry men?" Then seeing
that Marian hadn't a notion of what she meant, she said, "You don't
know them, do you? I'll have to tell you some time, you and the rest
of my scholars, for of course you are coming to my school."
"Oh, am I?" Marian's face was radiant.
"Why, yes, I imagine so. Don't you go to school?"
"I haven't been yet. Grandpa has always taught me at home,
you know."
"Oh, that's it." Miss Dorothy was taking off her hat, standing
before the mirror to puff out her soft ripples of hair. "What a
lovely big room this is," she remarked. "I never had such a big
room all to myself. We are such a large family that we always
have to double up, I don't mean like a jack-knife," she added
with a little laugh. "I wonder if I shall have to hunt for
myself in that big bed; if I do you will have to come and
find me, for I might get hopelessly lost if you didn't."
Marian laughed. This merry talk was very delightful; even Mrs. Hunt
was never quite so fascinatingly entertaining. She stood gazing at
Miss Dorothy with admiring eyes as she put a few touches to her
dress. Surely it would mean great things to have a young lady in
the house.
Miss Dorothy gave a final survey of the room as she turned from the
mirror. "I like it," she said nodding to Marian, "and when I get
down those solemn-looking pictures, hang up my own favorites, put a
cheerful cover on that table and a couple of bright sofa pillows on
that lounge, and have some plants in that south window, it will be
very cozy."
"Oh, will you dare?" began Marian and then stopped short. There were
probably no lengths to which a teacher might not be allowed to go,
even by so particular a person as Grandma Otway.
"Why, what is there so very daring about that?" asked Miss Dorothy.
"It isn't like walking a tight-rope, or shooting Niagara Falls in a
canoe." There was a saucy look in her eyes as she spoke, and a
dimple came and went as she strove to keep her face grave.
"It isn't like that, of course," said Marian feebly. "It will be
your own room, and you are a grown-up lady who can do as you please.
I suppose it is only children who don't dare to do things like
moving pictures and putting flower-pots on the window-sills when
they are freshly painted."
Miss Dorothy's merry laugh rang out. "Oh, you dear, transparent
baby. You've spoken volumes in that speech. Now I'm ready to go
down. What shall we do? My trunk will not be here till after the
next train is in, they informed me at the station. I'd like to
see the schoolhouse, but perhaps we'd best wait till morning,
then it can be shown me officially. Could we dare to walk in
the garden if I promise not to race over the borders and
recklessly pull the flowers? Does one dare to leave the
house to do that?" There was a little mocking look in
her eyes as she spoke.
"Oh, yes, of course we can go anywhere we like in the garden,"
returned Marian. "Do come, and I will show you my apple tree. If you
are not afraid to climb you can see the ocean from my seat in the
crotch,--and the mountain, too," she added more soberly.
"Don't suggest mountains yet," said Miss Dorothy, becoming sober
too. "But there, I won't think about mountains; I've always managed
them and I always intend to."
Marian gazed at her with new intentness and drew nearer. "Can you
manage mountains?" she asked wonderingly.
"Why, yes; if you don't make them out of mole-hills it is easy
enough."
Marian pondered over this answer all the way down-stairs, but could
not make head or tail of it. She would ask further when she knew
Miss Dorothy better. She felt quite assured that she would not be
long in feeling as much at home with her as with Mrs. Hunt.
As they passed the kitchen door near which the grim Hepzibah stood,
Miss Dorothy drew her skirts aside and fled down the garden walk,
giving a pretended scared look over her shoulder as she caught
Marian's hand. "Don't let her get me, will you?" she said. Marian
fell in with her mood and promised that she should not be delivered
to the ogress, though in her heart of hearts she felt that a person
who would dare to take liberties with Grandma Otway's best room
surely could not be a very scary individual, and by the time they
had reached the apple tree, she had decided that Miss Dorothy would
probably have no fear of climbing to the very top, if she cared to.
"The Garden of Hesperides and the Golden Apples!" exclaimed Miss
Dorothy, settling down into the crotch and giving Marian a hand to
help her to a seat by her side. "Isn't this too lovely for
anything? It will be the finest place in the world to come and read
fairy-tales. Do you know many? I have brought a lot with me, and
we'll have a lovely time here before it gets too cold to stay out."
"I don't know many fairy-tales," Marian answered doubtfully.
"Grandma doesn't exactly approve of them; at least she never tells
me any. She says that Bible stories are entertaining enough for any
one, and she lets me read those 'simplified for the understanding of
a child.'" She spoke with perfect gravity, though Miss Dorothy
turned her head to hide the smile she could not prevent.
"I suppose, then," said Miss Dorothy, "that you have a book of
those."
"Yes; it belonged to grandpa when he was small, and it is called
'Tales from the Bible, simplified for the understanding of a child';
I read it generally on Sundays. Mrs. Hunt knows about Cinderella and
the Glass Slipper and about the Pig that huffed and puffed till he
blew the house down."
"Oh, I don't know that last one," said Miss Dorothy; "you will have
to tell me, and I'll tell you about the Golden Apples. Don't the
apples smell good? Do we dare have any of them when they are ripe?"
"Oh, yes, we can have two a day; one in the morning and one at noon;
grandma says they are lead at night."
"Goodness me! I believe I have heard that saying before," said Miss
Dorothy, mentally determining to carry apples to her room to eat
when she felt inclined. Mrs. Otway should not decide such matters
for her. She sat with her chin in her hand looking off at the ocean,
blue in the distance. Marian, watching her, decided that although
the new teacher did not exactly fill her expectations in some
respects, in others she far exceeded them. She had very blue eyes
that could be merry or soft as her mood was, her hair was wavy and
of a light brown color; she was fair of skin, had rather a large
mouth and not a specially beautiful nose, but she was good to look
upon and the more one looked the more charming one thought her. She
was dressed very simply in a gray traveling gown with no jewelry but
a silver pin fastening her collar. Her face in repose was serious
and Marian could see that she was not one to be trifled with, in
spite of her fun-loving spirit.
"There are many things I want to know," said Miss Dorothy after a
while, "but I will wait till I absolutely have to ask questions."
"If you want to know one thing," returned Marian, "I can tell you.
If you would like me to tell you when grandpa and grandma will be
here I can say in about five minutes." She was looking off down the
street and Miss Dorothy saw two figures approaching.
"Then we'd better go in," she said. "I should not like them to meet
me in an apple tree; they might think me very undignified."
Marian was rather inclined to think they might, but she glossed over
the fact by saying, "Well, you see it has been such a long, long
time since they were young they must forget how it feels."
Miss Dorothy smiled and began to climb down the ladder, Marian
following. In a few minutes they were walking soberly up the path
and reached the front door just as Mr. and Mrs. Otway were there.
"Miss Robbins has come," announced Marian with a little nod of her
head in the direction of the young lady in the background.
"Ah-h," responded her grandfather, "then I was right, my dear," he
turned to his wife, "I said it was probable that she would get the
first train. We should have told Hepzibah or else you should have
remained at home."
"I never remain at home from the quarterly meeting upon any
pretext," returned Mrs. Otway firmly; "it was a most important one."
But Mr. Otway had hastened forward and was holding out his hand in
welcome to Miss Dorothy. "I am glad to receive my old friend's
daughter," he said with a stately bow. "This is Miss--ah, yes,
Miss Dorothy. I may have met you when you were less of a young
lady, but I cannot separate you, as a memory, from your sisters."
"I think I remember Professor Otway," returned Dorothy smiling up
into the near-sighted eyes which were peering down at her. Mr. Otway
was tall, spare, a little stoop-shouldered. His hair was quite gray
and grew sparsely around his temples; his face was clean shaven.
Mrs. Otway was below medium height, plump and keen-eyed. She wore an
old-fashioned gown and a plain bonnet. Winter or summer she never
went out without a small cape over her shoulders. Upon this occasion
it was of black silk trimmed with a fold of the same. She looked
approvingly at Dorothy's neat frock, but a little disapprovingly
at the arrangement of her hair.
"I am sorry not to have been here to welcome you," she said, "but
there are certain matters of business which cannot be set aside for
uncertainties. I hope Hepzibah or Marian showed you to your room."
"Marian did, and has been a very kind hostess," returned Miss
Dorothy. "I am very glad you did not give up an important matter
for anything so indefinite as my arrival. You must never let my
presence allow of any change in your arrangements, Mrs. Otway. I
am exceedingly grateful to you for taking me in, and I should be
very uncomfortable if I were to interfere with your usual routine."
Mrs. Otway nodded approval. "We shall consider you one of the
family, my dear Miss Robbins," she told her. "Marian, take my things
up-stairs." She gave her bonnet and cape to her granddaughter and
led the way to the semi-darkened parlor where she established
herself in a haircloth rocking-chair while Miss Dorothy seated
herself upon the sofa.
Marian laid the bonnet and cape carefully upon her grandmother's
smooth bed and went down to tell Hepzibah that it was the teacher,
who had arrived. She had not wanted to leave Miss Dorothy, in order
to give the old servant this piece of information, but now that her
chance had come she went straight to the kitchen.
Hepzibah was stalking about preparing supper. She looked up sharply
as Marian entered. "Well," she said, "what's wanting?"
"It's Miss Robbins, the teacher, Heppy," Marian told her. "You saw
us go by down the garden, didn't you?"
"Why didn't she say so?" returned Heppy in an aggrieved voice.
"How's I to know she wasn't a book-agent or a body selling home-made
laces and embroidered shirt waists. She was carrying a bag and it
might have been full of wares for all I knew."
"But she doesn't look like a peddler."
"Looks belie folks sometimes. Some of 'em is dressed as good as the
best, in hats with feathers and kid gloves. She might have been that
or anything, for all I could tell. I'll do just the same next time.
She'd oughter have told her business right out, instead of hemming
and hawing and asking was Mrs. Otway to home. That's the way they
all do; get the name next door and come as brazen as you please
asking for Mrs. this and that. I'd like to know who's to tell the
sheep from the goats."
"I would know in a minute that Miss Dorothy wasn't a goat," said
Marian.
"Oh, you know a heap, don't you," replied Heppy scornfully. "If you
knew so much why didn't you tell me who it was first off?"
"I didn't know exactly who it was but I could easily guess, for I
knew the teacher was coming some time soon."
"I don't see why your grandma didn't say I was to look out for her,"
Heppy went on with a new grievance.
"Maybe she thought you would know, because you helped get her room
ready, and knew she was expected," Marian made excuse.
"As if I could remember anything on a Saturday, when I'd been
pestered to death, answering the door a dozen times, while I was
cleaning my kitchen. She might have chose some other day to come."
"She has to begin school on Monday, and besides that would be just
as bad, for it would be wash-day and you are cross always then,
Heppy, you know you are."
Heppy turned on her. "You just go out of here," she said. "I don't
want you 'round underfoot, pestering me at meal-time nohow. I guess
I can get a meal for four just as easy as for three and I don't need
your help neither."
At this Marian was fain to depart, seeing that Heppy was in one of
her worst moods, when everything was a grievance. It was a pleasant
contrast when the little girl was met by Miss Dorothy's smile as she
returned to the parlor, so she settled herself by the side of this
new friend, folded her hands and let her feet dangle over the edge
of the sofa. It was rather a slippery seat and in time it might be
that she would have to wriggle back to a firmer place, but its
nearness to Miss Dorothy was its attraction and she felt well
satisfied and entirely secure when the teacher's arm encircled
her and drew her closer. "I am to have one new pupil anyhow,"
said Miss Dorothy, smiling down. "Won't it be nice for us to
be going to school together every day, Marian?"
"Oh, am I going?" Marian looked from one grandparent to another.
Mrs. Otway nodded sedately. "We have concluded that it is best," she
said. "Your grandfather has many affairs to attend to, and it is a
tax upon his time to teach you, therefore, since you will not need
to go to school unattended, we think it best. We shall see how it
works, at all events, and if it seems wise to withdraw you later,
we can do so."
Marian gave a long sigh of satisfaction, but said nothing. She was
constantly told that little children should be seen and not heard,
and moreover she thought it might hurt her grandfather's feelings if
she showed too much pleasure at the change. Yet when she gave the
new teacher a glad smile, Miss Dorothy realized that the prospect of
school was a pleasant one to at least one of her pupils.
_CHAPTER III_
_A New Road_
Instead of sitting in a straight-backed chair in her grandfather's
study, conning over dry lessons while Mr. Otway wrote or read, it
was quite a different experience for Marian to go to school to Miss
Dorothy in a cheerful little schoolhouse where twenty other girls
were seated each before her particular desk. Lessons with Grandpa
Otway had been very stupid, for he required literal, word-for-word,
gotten-by-heart pages, had no mercy upon faulty spelling, and
frowned down mistakes in arithmetic examples. He did not make much
of a point of writing, for he wrote a queer, scratchy hand himself,
and so Marian could scarcely form her letters legibly, a fact of
which she was made ashamed when she saw how well Ruth Deering wrote,
and discovered that Marjorie Stone sent a letter every week to her
brother at college.
However, the rest of it was such an improvement upon other years,
that every morning Marian started out very happily, book bag on arm,
and Miss Dorothy by her side. The first day was the most eventful,
of course, and the child was in a quiver of excitement. Her teacher
was perhaps not less nervous, though she did not show it except by
the two red spots upon her cheeks. It was her first day as teacher
as well as Marian's, as one of a class in school. But all passed off
well, the twenty little girls with shining faces and fresh frocks
were expectant and the new teacher quite came up to their hopes.
Marian already knew Ruth Deering and Marjorie Stone, for they were
in her Sunday-school class, and some of the others she had seen at
church. Alice Evans sat with her parents just in front of the
Otways' pew, so her flaxen pig-tails were a familiar sight, while
Minnie Keating's big brown bow of ribbon appeared further along on
Sunday mornings.
Marian felt that she did quite as well as the other girls in most
things, and was beginning to congratulate herself upon knowing as
much as any one of her age, when she was called to the blackboard to
write out a sentence. At her feeble effort which resulted in a
crooked scrawl, there was a subdued titter from the others. For one
moment the new scholar stood, her cheeks flaming, then with defiant
face she turned to Miss Dorothy. "I can spell it every word," she
said, "if I can't write it."
Miss Dorothy smiled encouragingly, for she understood the situation.
"That is more than many little girls of your age can do," she said.
"Suppose you spell it for us, then."
With clenched hands Marian faced her schoolmates. "Separate
syllables, and enunciate with distinct emphasis," she finished
triumphantly, without looking at the book.
"That is a very good test," said Miss Dorothy; "you may take your
seat. Now, Alice, I will give out the next sentence, and you may
spell it without the board," and the day was saved for Marian.
After this she triumphantly gave the boundaries of several
countries, told without hesitation the dates of three important
events in history, carried to a correct finish a difficult example
in long division, and when the hour came for school to close she had
won her place. Yet the matter of writing was uppermost in her mind
as she walked home, and she said shamefacedly to Miss Dorothy,
"Isn't it dreadful for a girl of my age not to know how to write?"
"It isn't as if it were a thing that couldn't be learned," Miss
Dorothy told her for her encouragement, "but you must hurry up and
conquer it. You might practice at home between times, and you will
be surprised to find how you improve. Have you never written letters
to your father?"
Marian shook her head. "Not really myself. Grandma always writes
them for me," then she added, "so of course she says just what she
pleases; I'd like to say what I please, I think."
"I am sure your father would like it better if you did. I know when
my father was away from home the letter that most pleased him was
written by my little sister Patty when she was younger than you."
"How old is she now?" asked Marian.
"Just about your age. She can write very well, but you can distance
her in spelling and arithmetic."
"I'll catch up with her in writing," decided Marian, "and maybe she
will catch up with me in the other things."
"I'll tell her what you say," said Miss Dorothy; "that will be an
incentive to you both. I should like you to know our Patty. She is
our baby, and is a darling."
"I should like to know her," returned Marian warmly.
"I'll tell her to write to you," promised Miss Dorothy.
"Oh, good! I never have letters from any one but papa, and he writes
only once a year. I wish he would write oftener, for his letters are
so nice, and I do love him, though I haven't seen him since I was a
baby."
"Perhaps if he knew you really cared so much to hear, he would
write. Why don't you send him a letter and tell him?"
"Oh, but just see what a fist I make at writing. I will tell him as
soon as I can write better, although," she added with a sigh, "that
seems a long time to wait."
Miss Dorothy was thoughtfully silent for a few minutes. "I will tell
you what," she said presently. "I have a small typewriting machine
which I will teach you how to use. It is very simple, and you spell
so nicely that it will be no time before you could manage a
perfectly legible letter to your father."
"Oh, Miss Dorothy, I do love you," cried Marian. "That is such a
delightful idea. What an angelic sister Patty has."
Miss Dorothy laughed. "What a funny little girl you are. I am glad,
however, that you didn't say: How awfully nice! I am afraid that is
what Patty would have said, but she hasn't had the advantage of
associating with only scholarly people like your grandparents, and
so she talks as her brothers and sisters do."
"I should think she would be awfully happy to have so many brothers
and sisters," remarked Marian.
"Oh, dear, see what example does," exclaimed Miss Dorothy. "You said
awfully happy and I never heard you say awfully anything before.
I'll tell you what we'll do; whenever you hear me saying awfully
nice or awfully horrid you tell me, and I'll do the same by you. Is
it a bargain?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, Miss Dorothy, but I'm afraid I should feel
queer to correct you."
"I am not perfect, my dear," said Miss Dorothy gravely, "not any
more than the rest of humanity. I shouldn't expect you to correct me
ordinarily, but this is a habit I want to get out of, and that I do
not want you to get into, so we shall be a mutual help, you see, and
you will be doing me a favor by reminding me."
"Then I'll try to do it. How shall I tell you when other people are
around? It would sound queer if I said: Oh, Miss Dorothy, you said
awfully."
"So it would, you little wiseacre. You can touch me on the elbow and
then put your finger on your lip, and I will understand, and I will
do the same when you say it."
Marian was perfectly satisfied at this. "I am so glad you are here,"
she sighed. "I feel lots more faith growing. I shall soon be
very--is it faithful I ought to say?"
"Well, not exactly in the sense you mean, though really it ought to
be that faithful means full of faith; as it is it means trustworthy
and devoted to the performance of duties and things. I think the old
meaning when one wanted to say that a person was full of faith was
faithful, but the original sense of many words has been lost."
"When shall I begin with the typewriter?" asked Marian, changing the
subject.
"We can begin this afternoon. I have unpacked and oiled it, so it is
all ready to use."
"How soon do you think I can send a letter to papa?"
"If you are industrious and painstaking I should say you could do it
in a week."
"Oh, that's not long, and he will get it long before Christmas,
won't he?"
"Yes, indeed! I should think in ten days or two weeks at the
furthest."
"I should like to send him something for Christmas. I never did send
him anything. Don't you think it would be nice to do it?"
"I think it would be awfully nice."
Marian gave her teacher's arm a gentle shake and put her finger to
her lip.
Miss Dorothy looked at her a little puzzled, then she understood.
"Oh, I said awfully, didn't I? Thank you, dearie, for reminding me.
What should you like to send your father?"
"I don't know. I'll have to think. You'll help me to think, won't
you?"
"Indeed I will, if you want me to. I should think almost anything
you could send would please him, for, after all, it is the thought
that counts, not the thing itself."
"Oh, but I do think things count, and--Miss Dorothy, you won't tell
if I ask him not to send me money."
"Not money? I think that it's rather a nice thing to have, for then
you can buy whatever you like."
"You couldn't if you were I."
"Why not?"
"Because. You won't say anything about it to the grans?" Marian's
voice dropped to a whisper. "When papa sends me money it always goes
to the missions; it is my sacrifice, Grandma says. As long as I
don't have the money really in my hands, it doesn't so much matter,
but it would matter if I had to go without butter or perhaps sweet
things, like dessert or cake for a whole month. That is what would
happen if I said I would rather have the money myself than let the
missionaries have it. Oh, I suppose it is all right," she added
quickly, "and no doubt I am a hardened sinner, but I would like a
real Christmas gift."
"Did you never have one?" asked Miss Dorothy, with pity and surprise
in her voice.
"Not a really one, except from Mrs. Hunt; she gave me a sweet little
pincushion last year, and a whole bag full of cakes and goodies. I
enjoyed them very much."
"Did your grandparents give you nothing at all?"
"Oh, yes. I had a new hat, and gloves and handkerchiefs. I was
pleased to have them of course, but I would like something real
Christmassy and--and--foolish."
"You blessed child, of course you would," and Miss Dorothy mentally
determined that the next Christmas should provide something real
Christmassy for her little companion.
Marian was silent for a while then she asked, "Do you have a
Christmas tree at your house?"
"Why, yes, always, and we all hang up our stocking from father down
to Patty. Don't you?"
"No, I never did, and I never had a tree."
"Why, you poor dear child," exclaimed Miss Dorothy surprised out of
discretion.
"There doesn't any one know how much I want it," said Marian in part
excuse, "but I do. That is what I meant about moving mountains and
faith. Do you believe if I had a great deal of faith, as sharp and
strong as a mustard seed that the Lord would send me a tree? I never
told any one before about it, but you understand better than Mrs.
Hunt. I thought once or twice I would ask her, but she might laugh
and I don't want any one to laugh, for it is very solemn." She
peered anxiously up into Miss Dorothy's face to see if there were a
suspicion of amusement there, but Miss Dorothy looked as grave as
any one could wish.
"I think faith can do a great deal, my dear little girl," she said
gently.
"It can move mountains, the Bible says. I heard grandpa and grandma
talking about it, and Mrs. Hunt showed me some mustard seed. I
tasted one and it was very strong, so I know now it doesn't mean
the bigness but the strongness."
Miss Dorothy looked down with a smile. "You little theologian," she
exclaimed. Then to herself she said: This comes of shutting up a
child with staid old people. The dear thing needs a whole lot of
frivolity mixed up in her life; Christmas trees and things. She
shall have them if I can do any of the mixing. "Well, dear," she
said aloud, "I think we will hold on to all the faith we can muster,
and see what will come of it, but you must realize that just sitting
still and believing isn't all of it. We must work, too, for the
Bible says faith _and_ works, not faith _or_ works. So now you work
hard over your writing, and send letters to your father so he will
know what his little girl likes and longs for, then you will be
doing your part in that direction, and at the same time put your
trust in his love for you, and no doubt something beautiful will
come of it all. You can come up to my room as soon as you want to,
and we will start the little typewriter."
Marian's satisfaction was too deep for words, but she gave her
teacher's arm a little squeeze and laid her cheek against it.
It was not long before she was tapping at the door of Miss Dorothy's
room, but before she began the work she was so eager for, she
asked, "Do you think I ought to ask grandma's permission?"
"I don't see why you need to, for there is nothing wrong about it,"
Miss Dorothy replied. "But if you feel as if you should, you can run
down and tell your grandmother what you are going to do. You can say
that I am going to teach you to use my little machine, and surely
she will not object."
But Mrs. Otway was off upon some charity bent, and Marian returned
feeling that she had done her duty in making the attempt to tell.
Then she and Miss Dorothy had great fun over the little machine
which seemed so complicated at first, but which gradually grew more
and more familiar, so that at the end of an hour under Miss Dorothy,
Marian was able to write out several lines quite creditably. These
she took down and proudly showed to her grandfather.
"First-rate," he exclaimed. "Keep on, my child, and after a while
you will be able to copy out my papers for me; a great assistance
that would be. I shouldn't wonder but in time you would make me an
excellent secretary." Under this praise Marian's qualms of
conscience were eased. If grandpa approved, that was enough. Her
next impulse was to run to Mrs. Hunt's to show off her new
accomplishment, but she decided to wait till she could manage the
typewriter entirely alone, so would the credit be greater.
She sought out Tippy and Dippy to tell her secret to. They were her
confidants always, and to-day she had almost forgotten them in the
novelty of having so sympathetic a friend as Miss Dorothy. It would
never do to forsake old and tried comrades, and so Tippy was roused
from her nap, and Dippy was captured in the act of catching a
grasshopper, then the two were borne to the end of the garden to
a sheltered spot where Marian always had her "thinks." She took
the two in her lap. Tippy settled down at once, but Dippy had to
have his head rubbed for some minutes before he began to purr
contentedly.