A HAPPY DAY.
The next day was one of the happiest Marion had ever spent. Mr. Eaton
took her for a long drive to a lovely distant village that looked
sleepy enough in the winter, but was a gay scene in summer, he told
her, when the two large hotels that were close to the lake were filled
with a gay crowd. They were both closed now, but Mr. Eaton drove to a
smaller one which was always open, and there, while the fat pony rested
and enjoyed his oats, they took dinner. The table was quite long and
full, and from where Marion sat she could look through a little hall
to the kitchen where some women were washing piles of dishes at a long
table. It reminded her vividly of the time when she spent hours every
day at the same kind of work.
Was it only last summer? She lifted up her hand and looked at it inside
and out. It was not white yet, but the palm was growing pink and soft.
“Two cents for your thoughts,” said Mr. Eaton, smiling to see her
apparent forgetfulness.
“I wasn’t thinking of any thing particular,” said Marion, starting from
her reverie.
“Were you not? There was an intentness about you which gave me the
impression that you were thinking out some problem.”
“I don’t know what I said that for. I was thinking of something
particular; I was thinking of all the days of my life till Mrs. Abbott
brought me to Coventry.”
“I should say that was a pretty long think for such a short time.”
“But, Mr. Eaton, I used to wipe dishes just as you can see those girls
in there. I did it for hours every day. I think I was too ashamed for a
minute to tell you that when you asked me what I was thinking of.”
Honest Marion colored as she made this confession, which Mr. Eaton took
very equably, in some way giving the impression by his manner that
he considered washing and wiping dishes a very natural and every-day
affair.
But as they were driving home over the snow, which sparkled like
diamonds under the morning sun, but took a warm, rosy tint in the
sunset light, Mr. Eaton told Marion a little Persian story which
showed he had been thinking of the matter.
“A king sent one of his ministers one day to carry jewels to a queen he
delighted to honor. When the proud trust was accomplished the messenger
walked among the courtiers with lifted head and lofty bearing, and
every one strove to be noticed by a man so honored and trusted. A few
days after the king sent him to clean with his own hands the steps of
the market-place, where dogs and beggar-children scrambled and fought
for the refuse that was thrown out, and where the long, undisturbed
accumulation of dirt had made that entrance hideous. When his work
was ended the man came back from the uncongenial task with as proud a
step, as lofty a carriage, as serene an eye as when he returned from
his errand of trust and honor. Of the sneers and jeers of the courtiers
at his abasement, and their laughter at the stains and soil upon his
white, gold-wrought robes, he seemed unconscious. At the king’s feet he
knelt, as he had knelt the day before, and said, ‘What thou didst give
me to do, my king, I did as I could.’
“‘And which service was most pleasing to thee?’ asked the king.
“‘All things that are done for thee are alike pleasing to thy servant,’
was the answer.
“And the king, turning to his people, said, ‘He is greater than ye
all, for his love and obedience make base services as great as royal
embassies.’
“Do you understand that, Marion?” he asked, as they turned the familiar
corner which brought the school, with its high fence, in sight.
“I think so,” she said, hesitatingly. “Isn’t it that if the Lord gives
us a disagreeable thing to do--a duty that seems disgraceful--we
should, if we love him, do it just as if it was something noble?”
“That is it, exactly, and there is no disgrace in washing dishes. It
seems to me to become a noble service when the tired little hands are
working to bring comfort to helpless dear ones.”
He said that very softly, looking away into the soft cloud-banks that
were fast resolving themselves into the long, stratified dark lines
that bridge the space from dusk to dark. He seemed almost to be talking
to himself, but Marion knew well that his words were spoken to comfort
her. She would gladly have said some words of thanks, but none seemed
to come, not even when he lifted her out of the sleigh at the door,
and told her to run in and get warm, could she express the pleasure
the day had given her. But, although she did not know it, her delight
showed plainly in her bright face, and in the happy sparkle of her big,
honest gray eyes.
Mrs. Abbott came home the next morning and engrossed her brother so
entirely that Marion would have greatly missed her companion of the
last day or two if she had not had full consolation in Elfie’s society.
The child’s love for her grew stronger every day, and Candace was
almost jealous when her little missy refused to say her prayers with
her little bowed head resting upon any one’s lap but Marion’s.