IN MRS. ABBOTT’S ROOM.
Marion went directly to Mrs. Abbott’s room when school was over and
told her of the man’s appearance. She longed to tell her, too, that
the same man had seen and talked with two of the girls, but, according
to the school-girls’ code of honor, it would not do to speak of their
adventure without the consent of Bell and Fannie.
Mrs. Abbott was seriously uneasy. “Do you really think the man looked
particularly at little Elfie?” she asked, “or did your knowledge that
possession of her has been sought before make you fanciful?”
“I am sure of it,” said Marion, positively, “and--”
“And what? Don’t keep any thing from me, child; this is a terribly
serious matter. If that man is some one employed by Ethel’s father,
then the child is in grave danger, and my responsibility will become
immense;” and Mrs. Abbott rose and walked up and down the room with an
appearance of great perplexity and agitation.
Marion was greatly troubled. “Dear, dear Mrs. Abbott,” she whispered,
“if I tell you something will you forgive me if I ask you never to tell
the girls? and don’t, O, don’t ask me to mention any names.”
“I do not like to give such a promise,” said Mrs. Abbott, gravely; “if
you know any thing I ought to know, then it is your duty to tell me and
leave me to decide what course to take.”
Marion left her side and went slowly back to her seat. It seemed to her
like a very mean thing to tell of other girls’ transgressions, and yet
love for Elfie made her feel it necessary Mrs. Abbott should know all
about the strange man, and even about the peddler’s visit; that, too,
was undoubtedly an attempt to discover if Elfie was living there. What
would Edna say and do if she told any thing about her? At that thought,
forgetting she was not alone, she exclaimed aloud, “O, I cannot, cannot
tell!”
At her words Mrs. Abbott stopped in her walk, and, seeing the real
suffering in her face, said tenderly, “Poor Marion, you do not want to
trust me, but I will trust you. Tell me what you think I ought to know,
as far as it concerns this matter, and I promise you that no one shall
ever know how I acquired the information. I would not ask you to do
violence to your sense of honor, for I respect your feeling; but for
Elfie’s sake I must hear.”
“And for Elfie’s sake I will tell you,” said Marion; “but don’t blame
me if I do not give any girl’s name. This man, or one very much like
him, got in the front gate with a peddler’s pack one day and asked some
of the girls questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“He asked if there was any little girl in mourning in the house?”
“That might not have meant any thing,” said Mrs. Abbott, “if it stood
alone. What else is there to tell?”
“The same man that looked over the back fence to-day met some of the
girls not long ago and talked with them.”
“Where?”
“O, please don’t ask me where, but he had a satchel and seemed to have
come from the cars. He said he was a friend of yours and was coming to
ask you to take his little sister. I don’t suppose he did call?”
“O, never.”
“This is the part that troubles me, and it did even before he looked
over the fence at us to-day. He managed in some way to find out from
the girls that Elfie is here.”
“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Mrs. Abbott. “O, Marion, our dear little
girl is in danger. How could those girls tell him?”
“Don’t be so frightened, Mrs. Abbott. I am sure no one can steal Elfie
while we are watching her so closely. You, Candace, or I have her in
sight every moment. And I think--yes, I am quite certain--that I would
risk my life for her any moment.”
“I am sure you would, dear, and I am so thankful that I trusted you
with this matter, which ought to be a secret, because Mr. Bellamy is
especially anxious that his darling’s life should never, either now
or in the future, be darkened by the knowledge of what he fears for
her. She is a sensitive, imaginative child, and if she were haunted by
a fear of being taken--stolen is not too hard a word to call it--she
would become nervously anxious, with the probable result of confirmed
ill health.”
“Poor little Elfie!”
“Dear, dear child,” said Mrs. Abbott; “she is well worth watching and
caring for, and yet the responsibility has become so complicated now
by this new aspect of the situation that I bitterly regret having
assumed it. I wish I had advised the senator to take Ethel and Candace
abroad with him.”
“It cannot be helped now,” said Marion, respectfully, “and our heavenly
Father can watch her here as well as there.”
“Thank you for reminding me of that, dear. Perhaps I let my sense of
personal responsibility overwhelm me too much and forget whose help I
can ask.”
“May be our fears have made us over-suspicious,” suggested Marion, by
way of comfort. “Coincidences are very funny sometimes, and this man
may really have no interest in Elfie. How could he have even suspected
she might be here of all other schools?”
“Mr. Bellamy must have been watched when he traveled and came here,”
said Mrs. Abbott. “Yes, indeed, I have no doubt of this man’s
mischievous purpose. And, my dear, watch the child closely, as you have
watched her before; be even more watchful still. It is such a comfort
to know that I can trust you to do it so fully. You pay me over and
over again for bringing you here, Marion.”
Marion clasped her hands before her face in a perfect ecstasy of
pleasure at these lovely words, and as Mrs. Abbott bent and kissed her
fondly she threw her arms around her neck, speechless, but radiantly
happy.