GLADYS HAS A ROOM-MATE.
When Dorothy left Marion at the call of the gong for study hours she
went at once to her own room.
She had two room-mates, both her cousins; one, Gladys Philbrick, was a
Florida girl, the only child of a wealthy owner of several
orange-groves. She was motherless, and needed a woman's care, and the
advantages of a Northern education, so her father sent her to live
with relatives in the small seaport town of Rock Cove.
The other, Susan Downer, was the child of a sister of Mr. Philbrick;
her father followed the sea, and her brother, almost the one boy in
Rock Cove who did not look upon a sailor life as the only one worth
living, was at the present time a student at the academy at Atherton,
only a few miles from Montrose. Dorothy herself was the child of a
fisherman--her own mother dead, and she left under the care of a weak
stepmother, whose numerous family of small children had made Dorothy's
life one of constant hardship.
When Mr. Philbrick, in one of his visits to Gladys at the North,
became acquainted with this little group of cousins, he had no
hesitation--being not only an educated man, but also one of a great
heart and generous nature--in making plans for their future education.
In carrying these out, he had sent Jerry Downer to Atherton; Gladys,
Susan, and Dorothy to Montrose.
Her cousins were already busy with their books when Dorothy came into
the room; and, careful not to disturb them, she sat quietly down to
study her own lessons, but she could not fix her mind upon them.
Marion alone down-stairs, homesick, with no one to say a kind word to
her, or to tell her about the school, "a stranger in a strange land,"
she kept repeating to herself; "and such a sweet-looking girl. It's
too bad!"
Try her best not to, she still found herself watching the hands of the
clock. For a wonder she was anxious to have study hours over; she
wanted to tell her cousins about Marion.
As it proved, they were quite as anxious to hear; for no sooner had
the clock struck nine, and the gong struck again for the close, as it
had for the opening of study hours, than they shut their books, and
Gladys said,--
"Tell us about Two Hundred? What a way you have, Dorothy, of always
finding out people who want you!"
"She was all alone," said Dorothy, by way of answer; "and she looked
so lonely."
"Tell us about her," said Susan. "Never mind the lonely; new scholars
always are; that's a part of their education, Miss Ashton says. We
should have been if we hadn't been all together. What is she like?"
"She's lovely," said Dorothy. "She is pretty, and she isn't. Her hair
just waves all over her head; and her eyes were blue, and they were
hazel, and they were--"
"Gray!" put in Gladys.
"Yes, I suppose they were gray; but they were all colors, but cat
colors, until it grew too dark for me to see her."
"We shall like her. I wish she could have a room near us. Her eyes
tell true tales."
"She can," said Gladys instantly. "She can room with me. I am the only
girl in school who hasn't a room-mate. You wait"--and Gladys, without
another word, hurried out of the room. She very well knew that after
nine Miss Ashton disliked a call unless there was some imperative
necessity for it, so she knocked so gently on the closed door that she
was hardly heard; and when at last Miss Ashton appeared, she looked so
tired, and her smile was so wan, that Gladys, eager as she was, wished
she had been more thoughtful; but, in her impulsive way, she blundered
out,--
"She can come to me. I'm all alone, you know."
"Who can come to you, Gladys?" If it had been any other of her pupils,
Miss Ashton would have been surprised; but three years had taught her
that this Florida girl was exceptional.
"Two Hundred! Dorothy says she is lovely, with big eyes, and
lonely"--
"You mean Marion Parke?"
"Yes, that's her name. We all call her Two Hundred."
"Then you must not call her so any more. It would annoy her."
"I never will if you'll please let her come and room with me. It's
such a cheerful room, and I'll be ever so nice to her, Miss Ashton;
try me, and see."
"But, Gladys, you know your father pays me an extra price for your
having your room to yourself."
"I think, Miss Ashton,"--looking earnestly in Miss Ashton's face,--"he
would be ashamed of me if I wasn't willing to share it with her.
Please! I'll be as amiable as an angel."
Miss Ashton knew the cousins well. She knew, if she excepted Susan, of
whom she felt always in doubt, she could hardly have chosen out of her
school any girls from whom she would have expected kinder and safer
treatment for the new-comer. "How could I have doubted God would
provide for this missionary child!" she thought, as she looked down
into the earnest face beside her; but she only said,--
"Thank you, Gladys; I will think it over!" and Gladys, not at all sure
her offer would be accepted, went back to her room.
The next morning, it must be confessed, things looked differently to
her from what they had on the previous night. It was such a luxury to
have a whole room to herself; to throw her things about "only a
little," but that little enough to make it look untidy. She did not
exactly wish she had waited until she knew more of Marion, and she
tried to excuse her reluctance to herself by the doubt whether she
ought not to have consulted her cousins, as their parlor was a room
common to them all; but it was too late now, and when she received a
little note from Miss Ashton, saying she should send Marion to her
directly after breakfast, she made hasty preparations for her
reception.
The dining-hall was filled with small tables, around which the girls
had taken their seats, when Miss Benton came in with Marion. Generally
a new-comer was hardly noticed among so many; but the peculiarity of
Marion's admittance, rounding their number to the largest the school
had ever held, made her a marked character for the time. Every eye was
turned upon her as she, wholly unconscious of the attention she
attracted, walked quietly behind the teacher to a seat next to
Gladys.
"Gladys, this is your new room-mate," said Miss Benton. Then she
introduced her to the others at the table, and left her.
"Grace before meat," whispered Gladys to her as the customary signal
for asking a blessing was given. Miss Ashton rose, and every head in
the crowded hall was reverently bowed as she prayed.
They were the first words of prayer Marion had heard since she knelt
by her father's side in the far-away home on the morning of her
departure. "The same God here as there!" Among this crowd of strangers
this thought came to her with the comfort its realization everywhere,
and at all times, brings. Even here, she was not alone.
There was a low-toned, pleasant hum of conversation at the table
during breakfast; the teacher who presided drew Marion skilfully into
it now and then; and she was the centre of a little group as the
school went from the hall to the chapel, where a short religious
service was every morning conducted.
This was under Miss Ashton's special care, and she took great pains to
make it the keynote of the school-life for the day. So far in the
term, what she said had its bearing on the immediate duties before
them; but this morning she had felt the need of meeting the cases of
homesickness with which the opening of every new year abounded, and
which seemed, to the pupils at least, matters of the greatest and
saddest importance.
She chose one of the most cheerful hymns in the collection they used,
by which to bring the tone of the school into harmony with her
remarks; and, after it was sung, she said:--