Lizzy sighed.
"What called out that sigh?" asked Mrs. Campbell, smiling.
"I was thinking that I should never do for a missionary," said Lizzy.
"I am sure I should not, if one must weigh and measure every word one says," said Marion, rather indignantly. "I can't bear such cold, calculating people; I think they are detestable. Let people follow their impulses, I say."
"And suppose the impulse of somebody is to tell a scandalous story about you or utterly to misrepresent something you have said or done?" said Christian. "What then?"
Marion was saved the trouble of a reply by a sudden interruption. Just as Mrs. Campbell finished speaking, Therese Beaubien was seen coming across the field as if her feet had wings.
"What in the world ails Therese?" said Lizzy. "See how she is running!"
"We shall soon know, for she is coming here," said Mrs. Campbell, going to the door just as Therese jumped over the garden wall, and came running up the path to the house. At the same moment Alick McGregor came round the corner and nearly caught Therese in his arms.
"Why, Therese, what is the matter?" exclaimed all the party at once.
"Oh, Mr. McGregor, have you seen my mother? Do you know where she is?" exclaimed Therese.
"No, my dear; I have not seen her since last week some time."
"Oh, where can she be? What has happened?" said Therese, wringing her hands. "Oh, Mr. McGregor, do, do come to our house and see what has happened!"
Heiress of McGregor.
—found a window—
"In a moment," said Alick. "Sit down a moment, Therese; recover your breath and tell us just what is the matter; then we shall know better what to do. Your mother is not at home? She may have gone out somewhere to work."
"No, no!" said Therese. "She always leaves the key where I can find it. But it is not there now, and the house is fastened. I looked in through the window, and everything is all smoked and blackened up; the ceiling is scorched, and there is a great hole burned in the floor. Oh, do come and see what has happened!"
It was not very far across the fields to the little house, and the whole party was soon gathered round the door which was fast. Alick tried the back door with the same result, but presently found a window, by which he entered and unlocked the door.
"Stay where you are, girls," said he; "I don't know how much weight the floor will bear. It is burned clear through. Duncan, will you come in?"
A more thorough search revealed little more than what Therese had seen through the window. There had clearly been an attempt to set the house on fire which had not succeeded. The fire had been lighted in the middle of the floor, had burned through into the cellar, and from some unexplained cause had gone out. There was no other sign of violence.
"Mother is killed! Mother is murdered!" exclaimed Therese. She turned pale as ashes, and would have fallen but for Doctor Campbell's supporting arm.
"Keep up, my dear; don't faint if you can possibly help it," said he. "Sit down on the ground—flat down that is the best way. Here, take this."
He poured something out of a small pocket-flask and held it to her lips. The instinct of obedience was strong with Therese. She drank, and her colour came back.
"I want you to try and keep your wits together, because you can give us the help that nobody else can," said Doctor Campbell, seeing that she was recovering. "We want you to look through the house and see what is missing, to see particularly whether any of your mother's wearing apparel is gone. Come, now, be a brave girl."
"How unfeeling Uncle Duncan is!" thought Marion.
Therese did not think so. She recognized the kindness in the doctor's tone of command, and mustered all her energies to obey. In a moment she rose to her feet and went into her mother's room, while Alick whispered something to his sister, who nodded assent:
"I'm afraid so."
"Mother's hat and shawl and her waterproof cloak are gone," said Therese, reappearing, "and some of her clothes. So is her large basket, and I can't find my French Testament or my photograph that I gave her last Christmas."
Alick and Miss Baby again exchanged glances. Therese saw the look:
"Oh, Mr. Alick, I am sure you know something you don't tell me. Do, do please let me know all."
"You had better do so, Alick," said Miss Baby.
"The trouble is that I don't know anything certainly, though I have a very strong suspicion," said Alick. "Therese, the truth is your father has been seen twice during the last week. Sam Bryant met him face to face on Blue Hill last Saturday, and I saw him twice on the same day."
"You don't think he has murdered her?" said Therese, in a horrified whisper.
"No," answered Alick; "there are no signs of that. I think that she has gone away with him."
"I don't believe it," said Therese, with a flash of indignant feeling which brought the colour back to her face. "My mother would never desert me for him—I know she never would."
"Let us look about again," said Doctor Duncan. "Has anything else been altered since you were here?"
At that moment the cat made her appearance from a little shed not far from the house. Therese went and looked into the shed.
"The cat's basket was up-stairs in the house, and now it is down here," she said. "Somebody must have moved it."
She went into the house and began moving out the bed from the wall.
"What is that for?" asked Miss Baby.
"Mother kept her money in a cupboard behind the bed when she had any," answered Therese. "I gave her eight dollars last Saturday, and she had more, I know, for she had just sold all her baskets." She opened the door of the little cupboard as she spoke. It was quite empty save for a bit of paper which lay on the shelf. Therese caught it up eagerly, read it, and then gave it to Alick.
"It is true," said she, in a hoarse whisper. "My mother has deserted me. Oh, mother, mother, mother!"
The note was very short. It merely said, "I am going to leave you, my child. I can do you no good, and I am only a shame and trouble to you and all my family. Don't distress yourself about me; I am not worth it. Stay with Mrs. Tremaine as long as you can, and be kind and dutiful to my mother. I shall never come back, but you may hear from me some time or other. I shall be taken care of." That was all.
"Poor thing! Poor misguided, perverse creature!" said Miss Baby.
"Don't say a word now," said Doctor Duncan, hastily, "but let us get this unhappy child home, and just as quickly as can be. Marion, run on before, and have a bed got ready, and plenty of hot water. We shall have to carry her, Alick."
"Oh, Uncle Duncan, what ails her?" cried Marion. "How dreadfully she looks!"
"Don't stop to talk, but run," was the doctor's only answer. "I am afraid she will have a fit. Take her up, Alick. There is no use in talking to her; she does not hear a word. Poor child! I hope her reason will not be overset."
Therese was carried to the farm and laid in bed.
Lizzy went down to the village and sent up her father and Mrs. Tremaine, but Therese lay like a breathing statue. Her eyes were wide open, but she seemed to see nothing and hear nothing.
"Do you think she will die, Uncle Duncan?" asked Marion.
"There is no saying; she may do worse than die," answered the doctor. "Pray for her, my child, for she needs all our prayers. I have great fears that she will never know anything again."
CHAPTER VII.
THE MISSION MEETING.
SATURDAY came, and with it the missionary meeting. Therese had not yet recovered her senses, but there were signs of improvement. Her pulse was better, and she swallowed what was put in her mouth.
"Oh, I do hope she will live," said Marion as she slipped into the room and stood looking at her playmate. "How pale she has grown!"
"That is a good sign," said the doctor.
"Don't you think she will live, Uncle Duncan?"
"I cannot tell, Marion; I hope she may, unless her mind should prove to be hopelessly gone. That has been my fear from the first. In that case we can hardly wish for her life, for we have reason to believe that she is prepared for death."
"I should not have thought that Therese had so much feeling," observed Marion, "she always seemed so lively and cheerful. Some girls in her situation would never have held their heads up at all, but Therese was always ready to help in any fun that was going on. If I had been in her place, my spirits would have been so depressed I should not have been able to enjoy anything."
Doctor Campbell smiled a queer little smile which at once set Marion to thinking whether she had said anything which her uncle could think silly.
"If you were burdened with any great trouble, you would find, my dear, that you could not afford to be depressed. Really afflicted people are seldom what is called low spirited. They cannot afford it. Depression of spirits properly so called usually comes from derangement of the liver."
"Just like a doctor," thought Marion. "Don't you mean to go down to the meeting, Uncle Duncan?" she asked, aloud. "Mrs. Parmalee expects you at least to tea, you know."
"Mrs. Parmalee must excuse me," answered the doctor; "I think this afternoon will be the turning-point with my patient, and I do not like to leave her."
"Is Uncle Duncan always so much interested in his patients?" asked Marion of her aunt as they walked down toward the village.
"Why, hardly," answered Mrs. Campbell, smiling. "If, for instance, I had a severe cold in my head, I should hardly expect the doctor to stay at home for me. He is naturally much interested for Therese, both because it is a remarkable case and because she is an unusually bright and interesting girl placed in very unhappy circumstances. I suppose Duncan would do his duty by a patient in any case, but you can hardly expect him to feel exactly the same amount of personal interest for them all."
Marion said no more, but walked on, considering whether she would not have the heiress of McGregor deserted by all her friends and left to the care of strangers in a brain fever, or whether a lingering consumption would not be more interesting.
When they arrived at the parsonage, they found the roomy parlours filled to overflowing. All the district school girls were present. Even Matty McRae had not been able to keep to her resolution of staying away, though she had done all the mischief in her power by repeating the story of Marion's watch to every one she could get to listen to her. Almost all the girls belonging to the missionary society had brought their work, and there was a great deal of talk going on, which ceased on the entrance of Mrs. Campbell and Marion.
Mrs. Campbell went round among the girls, speaking to those she knew and admiring the work, some of which was indeed remarkably pretty.
"How is Therese to-day?" asked Kitty as soon as she could get hold of Marion.
"Uncle Duncan thinks she is better, but I can't see any change in her," answered Marion, rather pettishly. She had been very sorry for Therese at first, but latterly she had begun to feel that the sick girl was attracting rather more than her share of interest. "She can swallow and she has grown pale and shuts her eyes, and Uncle Duncan says they are all good signs. I don't believe but that she might be roused if Uncle Duncan would let anybody try, but he won't."
"Of course he knows best," said Kitty. "Oh, I do hope she will get well."
"I'm sure I hope she will, for it isn't very convenient having her sick at our house so long," returned Marion. And then, feeling that this was not a very amiable speech, she added, hastily, "Of course I don't mind it myself, but it makes so much more work for Aunt Baby."
"Of course mamma will take her home as soon as Dr. Campbell thinks she can be moved safely," said Kitty. She turned away as she spoke, and Marion, as usual, began to wish her words unsaid.
If she had considered her words as much before she spoke as she did afterward, she would have saved herself and other people a great deal of trouble.
"And now what do you wish most to hear about?" asked Mrs. Campbell as soon as she had found a seat between the folding-doors where she could see everybody. There was a short silence, and then one of the little girls said, "Everything, please."
"But I can't tell everything at once, you know," said Mrs. Campbell, smiling. "Where shall I begin?"
"With little Rachel, please, Mrs. Campbell," said Lizzy Gates, who was apt to be the spokesman wherever she was, not from any particular forwardness, but because, as she expressed it, she "could never see anything waiting to be done without trying to do it." "Please to tell the girls the story you told me the other day up at your house about how Dr. Campbell found Rachel in the first place."
"Very well; I suppose I may as well begin there as anywhere. If I do not tell you what you wish to know, you must ask questions."
I shall not attempt to give the substance of Mrs. Campbell's little lecture, interesting as it was. When she came to a conclusion, there was a general cry of—
"Oh, Mrs. Campbell, don't stop. Go on, please."
"My dear girls, my lungs are not made of cast iron," said Mrs. Campbell, smiling, "and I think you have had a pretty long 'screed,' as my father would say. Do you know that I have been talking to you for more than two hours?"
"It doesn't seem possible," said Laura Bryant, who had heretofore taken very little interest in the missionary society. "It does not seem any time at all."
"That is a very pretty compliment, my dear."
"It wasn't a compliment, it was true," answered Laura, bluntly.
"Compliments may be true as well as false, Laura. If I should say you were a very attentive listener, that would be a compliment, but it would also be true."
Laura hardly knew whether to be pleased or not. She was not accustomed to politeness, or even civility, at home. All the Bryants thought they showed their sincerity by being blunt and rude and saying the most disagreeable things possible, especially to each other. Nevertheless, she felt, as everybody must, the charm of sincere good breeding.
"What I like is that you make everything so real," said she. "When I read of such things in books, they never do seem real. I cannot make myself believe that these Turks and Syrians and Arabs are people having the same feelings as we have."
"I know," observed Lizzy. "I have had the same feelings about places I have never seen. I am not quite sure that I really believe in China, after all."
"You are like the old lady who said it had never been revealed to her that there was such a place as Jerusalem," said Mrs. Campbell. "I believe many people have the same feeling. It is one of the difficulties which the mission boards have to contend with. There are numbers who would be ready to give if they could only see the need with their own eyes, but they cannot do that, and it has never been 'revealed' to them that there are any such places or people or things as the missionary papers tell them of. That power of realization is one of the many uses of imagination."
"I never thought of that," said Emily Sibley, a grave, pale, prim-looking girl, one of the oldest in the school. "I always supposed imagination was something to be put down—a kind of disease of the mind."
"Not at all, my dear. Imagination is as much a faculty of the mind as reason. Like that, it should be regulated and controlled and sanctified, but no more 'put down' than reason should be 'put down.'"
"My father don't believe in missions, any way," said Matty McRae, who had listened in spite of herself. "He says the churches go running about after foreign missions and such stuff, and neglect the poor at their own door, and that every dollar given to the heathen takes five dollars to send it."
"If your father will take pains to inquire for himself, Matty, he will find both these statements untrue," answered Mrs. Campbell. "He will find that the churches which do and give the most for foreign missions are those which are most active and generous in all kinds of charitable work at home, and that the statement about the money is quite as incorrect as the other."
"Why don't some one disprove them, then?" asked Lizzy.
"They have been disproved over and over again, but that does not prevent their being repeated on every occasion."
There was a little whispering in one corner, and somebody said, as if speaking a little louder than she meant,—
"Yes, I will ask her too; I want to know how it was."
"Ask her what?" said Mrs. Campbell.
Little Mary McIntyre stood forward, flushed and rather scared, but evidently determined to know the truth.
"Well, Mrs. Campbell, I don't know but you'll think me impudent, but I don't mean to be, so I hope you'll excuse me."
"I will when I know what there is to excuse."
"Well, somebody has been telling everybody that you gave Marion a present of a watch that cost more than a hundred dollars, and folks say—some folks do—that they won't give money to missionaries to buy gold watches with. And I thought I would just ask you how it really was."
"Quite right, Mary. I will answer your question to the best of my ability. In the first place, the watch did not cost a hundred dollars, but only sixty. Secondly, it was given to Marion, not by me, but by Mr. Van Alstine, her stepfather, who is a quite wealthy man. Thirdly, supposing I had given my niece a gold watch, it would by no means follow that the cause of missions was any poorer. Mr. McRae is agent for a sewing-machine factory; but if he should give Matty a watch, nobody would have a right to suppose that he paid for it with his employers' money. That would be a very unkind and uncharitable conclusion."
Mrs. Campbell had known nothing about Matty's connection with the story of the gold watch. She was therefore very much surprised when all the girls looked at her significantly and Matty coloured and looked just ready to cry. She saw that there was something amiss, and with her usual ready tact she hastened to change the conversation.
"Suppose any one wished to be a missionary; what would be the best way of going to work to get ready, Mrs. Campbell?" asked Emily Sibley.
"I hardly know how to answer you except by saying that the better you are prepared for usefulness at home, the more useful you are likely to be abroad. Some experience in teaching is very desirable, and a district school or a class in Sunday school is a very good training. Then one should be well acquainted with the best methods of doing all sorts of household work; and, in short, usefulness in the home-field is the best preparation for usefulness in the other."
"Now, really, my dear girls, you must not quite eat Mrs. Campbell up at one meal," said lively little Mrs. Parmalee, coming into the room presently. "Consider that you have kept her on the stretch for three mortal hours. Now put away your work and come and have some tea. You have learned as much as you can remember, I am sure."
"We have not been learning at all," said Mary McIntyre, indignantly. "It has been just as interesting as it could be."
"Mary doesn't go to the Crocker school, that's certain," said Lizzy, joining in the universal laugh. "Never mind, Molly; some time or other you will find out that learning can be interesting. Oh, there! Don't cry," as the sensitive little girl's cheeks grew scarlet and her eyes overflowed. "There was not a bit of harm in what you said, and the girls were not laughing at you at all. Were we, girls?"
"No, of course not," said Kitty. "I remember when I used to have the same feeling when mamma was sick so long in Paris, and I had Miss Milliken for a governess. She meant to be good, and she was, but oh, so dry. I was reading the 'Tales of a Grandfather' for my English lesson, and she made it as dry as the Fourth Reader."
"How fond Kitty is of talking about the time when she was in Paris!" said Laura to Marion in a whisper. "She thinks she is ever so much better than the rest of us because she has been abroad," continued Laura. "Mother says she shouldn't think the Tremaines would want to say much about that, because Mr. Tremaine gambled away all his wife's property there. I do hate such stuck-up, aristocratic folks, don't you?"
The conversation was interrupted by a call to tea. It was the custom in Holford on all such occasions for the ladies of the congregation to send in refreshments. The table was bountifully supplied with all sorts of good things, to which the girls were fully prepared to do justice. They all stood round the room, while Lizzy Gates, Kitty, and two or three others waited upon them, and there was a great deal of eating, laughing, and talking. Marion was one of the waiters, and after the rest had finished sat down with them to "eat her supper in peace," as Lizzy said.
"Oh, Mrs. Campbell, please stay with us," said Kitty; "I think we have earned that privilege by our arduous labour. Don't you, girls?"
"Yes, indeed," was the general answer.
And Mrs. Campbell, nothing loth, sat down again. She was fond of the society of young people, and naturally gratified by the interest shown in what was most interesting to her. She had been at a good deal of pains, and had spent valuable time which she could ill spare in writing letters to the little missionary society in Holford; and taking Marion as an index of the state of feeling among its members, she had been vexed and disappointed by the apparent indifference.
"Girls, we ought not to ask her another single question," said Kitty at last; "it is a shame to make her talk so much, when she is so tired. Marion, I shouldn't think you would ever know when to stop."
Marion coloured, conscious that she had hardly even made a beginning.
"What a pity poor Therese could not been here!" said Lizzy. "She would have had more questions to ask than anybody. I think Therese would make a good missionary."
"Is Therese a religious girl?" asked Mrs. Campbell.
"Oh yes, indeed, Mrs. Campbell," answered Kitty, eagerly. "I do think she is a real Christian, and mamma says so too. She is so faithful about everything. I do think she makes a conscience of the least thing she undertakes."
"That is a good trait, certainly," said Mrs. Campbell.
"And then she is so much in earnest about everything she does," added Lizzy. "Oh, she is a splendid girl; I do hope she will get well."
"Mamma says Therese has great talents," observed Kitty; "she says she never knew a girl on whom a thoroughly good education could be better bestowed, and that it is a pity she should not have the chances some girls are throwing away."
"Why doesn't your mother send her to school, then?" asked Marion.
"She cannot afford it," answered Kitty, simply. "You know we are not rich at all, and mother could not afford to keep Therese unless she saved her the expense of another girl. If it were only Therese, we might do it, but we have to help other people who have more claims upon us. I wish it was different, I am sure, for I love Therese dearly."
"Therese thinks she has a splendid chance," said Lizzy; "she told Marion and me so that very day she was taken sick. Don't you remember, Marion? She said she was just as happy as she could be, and that there were very few girls who had as good a chance as hers."
"I am glad she thinks so, I am sure," said Kitty; "we do help her all we can."
"I'm sure I wish I had somebody to help me," said little Mary McIntyre, who was one of the party and had hitherto listened in silence to the conversation. "You wouldn't laugh at what I said about learning, girls, if you went to school to Miss Smith. She does make everything so stupid, and she says I ask frivolous and foolish questions because I want to know about the people who live in the countries in the geography," continued Mary, forgetting her shyness in the recital of her wrongs; "and for my part, I think it is quite as important to know who lives along the rivers is to know just how long and how wide they are."
"You must consider, my dear, that Miss Smith has a good deal to do," said Mrs. Campbell, sympathizing with the little girl; "but, Mary, if Miss Smith does not answer your questions, you should try to find out in other ways. You must use the opportunities you have, and you will find that others will grow out of them. But, my dear girls, doesn't it strike you that we have been sitting an unconscionable time at the table, and that our friends will wonder what has become of us? I think we had better return to the drawing-room."
"Hasn't it been a delightful time?" said Kitty to Marion as they were putting on their hats to go home. "I don't think I ever spent a pleasanter afternoon in my life. Your aunt is so interesting."
Marion assented rather languidly. She had not enjoyed the afternoon, and was glad when it was over. Marion had, somehow or other expected to have her own consequence greatly enhanced by her aunt's coming. Mrs. Campbell was her property, and should have reflected credit upon her. But nobody had seemed to think of Marion at all. She was only a girl among the rest of the girls, and no one treated her with any more consideration than if she had been little Mary McIntyre.
"Marion," suddenly exclaimed her aunt as they were slowly and rather silently walking homeward in the twilight—the "gloaming" Hector McGregor would have called it—"how came you to give the girls the idea that I did not want anything said or any questions asked about the subject of our mission before the lecture?"
"I don't know, I am sure," answered Marion; "I got the idea from you somehow, and I thought myself the lecture would be more interesting if it was all new to them."
"You gave them a false impression," said Mrs. Campbell, "and me also. I thought the girls cared nothing about the matter, and I was very much hurt that it should be so after all the pains I had taken. You ought to be very careful in such matters."
"I am sure I did not mean any harm," said Marion, with a sigh.
"And you did not do any, as it turned out, but you might have done a great deal," said Mrs. Campbell. "You see how the story has gone about your watch. Do you know who began that?"
"It was Matty McRae herself," said Marion, laughing and forgetting her own annoyance for the moment in the remembrance of Matty's discomfiture. "Didn't you see how all the girls looked at her?"
"I thought I noticed something peculiar," said Mrs. Campbell. "Poor child! I did not mean to mortify her so. I mentioned her father because he was the only agent I could think of at the moment."
"I should think you would be glad," said Marion. "I am sure she deserved it for telling the stories she told."
"I dare say she did, but still I am sorry. It seldom does people good to hurt their feelings."
"I am sure I wish people would remember that where I am concerned," said Marion, with another sigh.
"Why, who hurts your feelings, Marion? I thought everybody was very considerate and kind to you," said Mrs. Campbell.
"If it was you, Aunt Christian, you wouldn't think so," said Marion, with another sigh.
"Perhaps you are too easily hurt."
"I dare say I am. I know I am very sensitive, and am hurt by a great many things which other people don't mind at all."
"If that is the case, there must be something wrong," said Mrs. Campbell. "A sore spot is usually a diseased spot and needs to be cured."
"I don't understand you, Aunt Christian."
"Why, if your finger is sore, you know that something is the matter with it," said Christian. "Anybody's hand may be hurt by a hot iron or by being pinched in a door; but if you shrink from having your hand touched, or even looked at, you must know that it needs the doctor."
"And what do you think is the best cure for over-sensitiveness, aunt, supposing that I am over-sensitive?"
"I think usually the best cure lies in removing the cause of the disease."
"What is the cause?"
"It is different, of course, in different cases. As often as any way, perhaps oftener, it arises from too much thinking about ourselves."
"I don't think I am so very self-conceited," said Marion, in an offended tone.
"I did not use the word 'self-conceited,' I believe, my dear. There are different ways of thinking about ourselves, and I was going to say that they are almost all equally bad. That would be going too far, but I do think the true remedy for over-sensitiveness is self-forgetfulness."
"I don't see how one would go to work to forget one's self."
"In various ways. Instead of thinking what others ought to do for you, busy yourself in thinking what you ought to do for them. Instead of dwelling on your own feelings, put them aside and try to enter into the pursuits of other people. In short, to sum up all in a little, 'Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.' 'For even Christ pleased not himself.' See, here is Uncle Duncan coming to meet us, and he looks as if he had good news. I hope poor Therese is better. Well, Duncan?"
"Therese has opened her eyes and spoken," said Doctor Campbell. "She is quite rational; and if we can only tide her over the dangerous time, she will do well."
"What do you mean by the 'dangerous time,' Uncle Duncan?" asked Marion.
"The time when she shall begin to remember," answered Doctor Campbell. "Barbara is sitting with her; and, Marion, my dear, you must try to do up the work and attend to everything about the house, so as to leave your aunt at liberty to sit with Therese."
"Yes, that is always the way. The drudgery always comes to my share," thought Marion, indignantly. "Just as if I could not sit with Therese and manage her just as well as Aunt Barbara!"
CHAPTER VIII.
"LEFT, BUT NOT ALONE."
"I WILL help you with the work, Marion," said Mrs. Campbell, coming down after having put her hat away and changed her dress.
"Thank you, Aunt Christian; I can do it myself," answered Marion, proudly. "Since it is all I am considered fit for, I may as well give myself to it."
Mrs. Campbell took no notice of this remark; but going into the milk-room, she began putting away the milk which Alick and the hired man were bringing in.
"In Scotland, now, it would be you and I who would be milking," said she to Marion as she came out with a pile of pans in her hands. "Milking there is work for lassies, and not for men. Baby and I used always to milk in my mother's time; don't you remember, Alick?"
"Marion doesn't like to milk," said Alick. "Either she thinks it beneath her dignity, or else she is afraid of the cows, I don't know which."
Alick spoke playfully, but his words hurt still more Marion's already wounded vanity—her feelings, she would have said. She did not say a word, but went about her work in sulky silence, till Miss Baby came out of the sickroom with some dishes in her hands.
"Well, Marie dear, how are you getting on?" said she, pleasantly.
"Well enough," answered Marion, shortly, not to say rudely.
"You heard that Therese was better? Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"
"I don't know—yes, I suppose so. Everybody seemed to think it was very nice, so I suppose it was," said Marion.
"My dear child, what is the matter?" asked Christian, seeing that Marion was just ready to cry.
"Nothing, Aunt Christian," answered Marion, "only I am so tired I don't know what I am about." Marion's voice failed.
"There! Never mind the work," said Aunt Baby. "Go and sit down with Therese. She is asleep now, and won't notice if you go in softly. The minute she wakes or shows signs of waking, come and call me."
"I don't know about that arrangement, Barbara," said the doctor, doubtfully. "Marion, be sure you call me the moment she stirs. Above all, don't let her say a word; watch her every minute, and the moment she shows signs of waking, call me."
"Uncle Duncan thinks I am a fool, as every one else does," said Marion to herself as she took her seat by the bedside. "Just as if I had never done anything for sick people!"
To do Marion justice, she was always ready to help in cases of sickness and was in general a very good nurse, but she did not quite appreciate the importance of the present occasion, and she was thinking more of herself than her patient. Therese slept very quietly for nearly an hour. Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on Marion with a wondering and puzzled expression. Marion did not observe her, being at that moment deeply engaged with the heiress of McGregor.
Presently Therese spoke.
"Why, Marion, is that you!" said she quite calmly. "How did you come here?"
Now was the time for Marion to have shown that calmness and presence of mind which the heiress of McGregor had just been exercising, under circumstances of the utmost danger. But somehow the calmness and presence of mind were not at hand just then, and she could not think of anything to say, except, in a scared tone,—
"Hush, Therese! you must not speak a word; go to sleep again."
"Why, what is the matter?" said Therese, in a wondering tone and looking about her. "This is not my room. Where am I?" Then, as memory began to come back, "Oh, what has happened? I am sure there is something dreadful; what is it?"
"There is nothing dreadful at all," answered Marion, in a tone of authority, "and nothing has happened. You must not say a word."
"But I am sure something is the matter," said Therese, raising her hand to her head. "It was something about mother. They said she had gone away; or was it that she was burned up in the house? Marion, why don't you answer me?"
"You will know all about it when you are better," said Marion, a good deal alarmed, but maintaining her ground; "you must not ask any questions now. Lie down and try to go to sleep again; your mother is here all right."
"Then call her, do call her, and let me see her!" cried Therese. "Mother, mother, why don't you come?"
Thoroughly frightened, Marion did at last what she ought to have done at first; she called her uncle.
Doctor Duncan entered the room and went to the bedside.
"Hush, my dear child!" said he, in calm tones. "Be quiet, and then I will explain the matter to you. Your mother is not here, so there is no use in calling her."
"Marion said she was here," said Therese.
"Marion was wrong; she is not here, but I hope she is quite safe and well. We have no reason to think anything else. You have been, and are, very sick, but I hope you will soon be better, if you do as you are bid. When you are so, you shall hear all that there is to tell. Marion, go and tell your Aunt Barbara to bring the broth I asked her to have ready, but don't come back yourself."
Marion did her errand, and then went up to her room and burst into a flood of tears, though to save her life she could not have said exactly what she was crying about. Mortification, wounded vanity, perhaps a little fatigue, and—tell it not of a heroine!—a little too much plum-cake and cream tart, all contributed to her tears.
Presently there was a knock at the door, and Aunt Christian entered. "Duncan thought you would like to know that Therese has fallen quietly to sleep again," said she.
"I'm sure I am very glad," answered Marion, rather ashamed to accept the consideration after the hard thoughts she had just been entertaining of her uncle. Then, recurring to herself, as usual, "I suppose Uncle Duncan thinks it is all my fault?"
"He thinks you should have called him, as he told you," answered Christian. "Why didn't you?"
"I thought I could just as well manage her myself, and so I could if she had not been so unreasonable."
"We don't expect people in her circumstances to be anything but unreasonable," answered her aunt. She was silent a moment, and then said, "Marion, suppose we try to arrive at the bottom of this matter."
"I don't know what bottom there is to arrive at," said Marion, rather unwillingly. "It turned out just as it always does. I tried to be useful, and I am blamed and despised for it. That is all. I ought to be accustomed to such treatment by this time, but I am not, and I never shall be."
"One thing at a time, Marie. I don't know that any one has despised you. You were blamed, and I think justly."
"Yes, there it is. I am always in fault, whatever happens. I did the best I knew how, and that was all I could do."
"There was the trouble, Marion. You should not have tried to do anything except just what you were told. Duncan told you expressly to watch her and call him the moment Therese showed signs of waking. Could you not have done that?"
"I thought I could manage her myself."
"But why should you wish to 'manage her' yourself? It was not your place to 'manage.' Marion dear, I do think you would feel better if you would see and own where you were in the wrong."
"Oh, of course I am in the wrong. You need not tell me that. I think I must be an absolute fool. I might be sure something would go wrong with Therese if I had anything to do with her," sobbed Marion, giving way to a fresh burst of tears. "I wish I was out of the way, I am sure."
"I would not say that if I were you," said her aunt, gravely. "If you should be wrong about that, if you should make a mistake there, it might not be so easily set right, perhaps. Moreover, Marion, I am afraid you are not speaking the truth even to yourself. It is not that you think yourself a fool, but that you think you are very superior to the people around you, and that they do not appreciate your superiority. Is not that the trouble?"
"You don't in the least understand me," said Marion, feeling more and more aggrieved.
"But now tell me, Marie, why didn't you call your uncle, as he told you?"
"I didn't notice that Therese was awake till she spoke," confessed Marion, at last.
"But you should have known, my dear. You were told to watch her every minute."
"Well, I meant to, but I got thinking of something else, and then I thought I could manage well enough, and I was vexed at Uncle Duncan for thinking I couldn't do as well for Therese as Aunt Baby," said Marion, coming to the truth at last.
"Then, you see, it was just as I told you. You were thinking too much about yourself, and feeling angry that any one, even one so much older as Aunt Baby, should be considered your superior. My dear child, as long as you allow yourself in such a spirit as that, you will never have any peace either within or without."
"Well, I can't bear to be despised."
"Is it despising a girl of fifteen to think that she is not equal in judgment and experience to a woman of forty? It would be very unreasonable to expect any such thing."
"I shall never have any comfort or be any comfort to anybody in the world," said Marion, crying again. "If my father had lived, it would have been different, but nobody feels for me or cares for me. My mother has deserted me for a stranger, and there is nobody to love or sympathize with me."
"Marion, you are 'sinning your mercies,' as my father says," said her aunt. "There is not a girl in the United States who has a better home or kinder friends than you have."
"I thought you would feel for me when you came," continued Marion, between her sobs, "but you and Uncle Duncan are just like all the rest. You look down on me and despise me."
"You certainly are not going on in a way to make me respect you at present," replied Mrs. Campbell. "I must confess I am disappointed in you."
Mrs. Campbell turned to leave the room.
"Please don't go, Aunt Christian. Oh, I am so miserable!"
"I don't see any occasion for any misery, Marion. What is all the trouble about? Think it over now, and tell me without any exaggeration what the matter is. You did wrong about Therese, and might have occasioned great harm, but we hope none has been done. That matter is easily disposed of."
"I don't see how."
"Simply, my dear, by owning that you were in the wrong, and then thinking no more about it. What next?"
Marion did not know, only "she was very unhappy, and all she did was wrong, and—"
"Now, Marie, what do you mean by that?" interrupted her aunt. "You don't mean to say that you believe all you do to be wrong because you won't acknowledge that you were to blame even in one particular? However, I see there is no use in talking. I advise you to go to bed and get rested, and to-morrow perhaps you will see matters differently. Good-night. I must go to bed myself, so that I can relieve Sister Baby at two o'clock."
"I suppose there is no use in my offering to do anything?" said Marion.
"Why, you are hardly in a state to be of much use just now, my dear, and the case is rather too serious to be left to a young nurse like you—no offence to your skill. I think the best thing you can do is to say your prayers and go to bed and to sleep as soon as possible, that you may be ready to help in the morning."
Marion went to bed, but not to sleep.
Aunt Christian's plain dealing had torn a little hole in the veil of self-conceit which usually enveloped her, and as she reviewed her conduct for the last few hours she could not help seeing that she had been wrong. Still, her repentance was not of a healthful kind. It was not the fact that she had sinned in indulging uncharitable and undutiful thoughts, in disobedience and self-conceit, which distressed her, but that she had fallen in the estimation of her uncle and aunt.
"Aunt Christian said she was disappointed in me, so she must have expected a good deal. How silly I have been! If I had only called Uncle Duncan the first minute! But then it was not only that. I was cross, I know, about doing the work. And I needn't have cried and made such a fuss afterward. I don't care. I can't help it now, but I mean to let them see to-morrow that I can do something and be of some use."
And with this resolution Marion at last fell asleep.
Marion had fully meant to be up very early and do all the work before her aunt was awake, but her wakeful night made her sleepy; and when she came down, she found breakfast all ready.
"Why, Aunt Barbara, why didn't you call me?" she exclaimed.
"You were so tired last night I thought I would let you sleep," answered Aunt Baby. "There was very little to do."
Marion was vexed; but remembering her resolution, she swallowed her vexation and asked, "How is Therese?"
"Very much better, we hope. She has no fever and is quite rational and composed. Uncle Duncan thinks there is no reason why she should not get well if she has no new shock. Mrs. Tremaine has sent word that she is coming up to stay with Therese to-day, and Fanchette Beaubien is with her already."
"Did Therese know her?"
"Oh yes, and was glad to see her. She was a little agitated at first, but Fanchette was so calm and sensible that she soon grew quiet again. Call grandfather, my dear, and let us have our breakfast."
Therese improved steadily after she once took the turn, and in the course of the week she was able to sit up, and even to come out into the common sitting-room. She was very docile and thankful, but sad and absent-minded, and it was evidently hard for her to interest herself in anything.
She was established one day in an arm-chair in the sitting-room with some light, pretty work in her lap and a pile of stereoscopic pictures on the table at her side. Marion was at school and all the family were busy in their several ways. Therese was not sorry to be left alone. They were all so kind to her that she felt as if she were ungrateful not to be interested, and it was very hard work to care for anything just now. She leaned back in her chair with closed eyes, and presently tears came starting out from under the long black lashes.
"Tired, lassie?" said old Hector, sitting down beside her and laying his broad hand on hers.
"Not—not so very," answered Therese.
"You are getting better very fast."
"Yes, I suppose so," Therese answered, but somewhat languidly, as if she did not feel much interest in the question.
"Are you not glad to get well?" asked the old man.
Therese answered, after a little pause of consideration, as it seemed, "I am willing to get well."
"Is that as far as you can get, poor lassie? That is hardly right for a young thing like you."
"I'm afraid it is," answered Therese, with rather a wintry smile. "I am not ungrateful, indeed, Mr. McGregor; I feel how kind every one has been to me; but I feel so left, so alone, as if I had no more place and nothing to do. Everybody is very good, but nobody seems to need me."
"I think I understand," said Hector McGregor. "You have always made your poor mother your chief object, and now she is gone, you feel as if you had nothing more to do."
"That is just it," said Therese, roused and interested and greatly comforted by the old man's quick comprehension of her trial. "Mother has always been in my thoughts. When I have earned money, it has been for her. When anything nice was given me or anything pleasant happened, half the pleasure was in telling her about it or saving it to share with her. It was just the same with what I learned, and I was always thinking of the time when we could have a little home together, and now it is all taken away."
"And is that the worst of it?" asked Hector, gently. "Don't say any more unless you like, my child, but I am an old man, and perhaps it may lighten your poor heart to talk to me. Isn't there something harder still?"
"Yes, indeed," said Therese. "It does seem so hard that, after all, mother should have gone and left me; for, Mr. McGregor, I have been a dutiful child as far as I knew how. I loved mother beyond all things, and now she has gone and left me for that man who never did her anything but harm. I can't help feeling hard and bitter toward her, not if I try ever so much.
"There is another thing that I suppose ought not to trouble me, but it does," continued Therese, after a little pause, "and that is the disgrace. I never minded it—I never thought much about it before. But now it seems as if I should never dare to look anybody in the face again. I feel as though I should like to go clear away from every one who has ever known me or heard of my father and mother. You know Miss Perkins was here yesterday; and when she and Miss Baby were out in the garden, I heard her say to Miss Baby, 'Of course Mrs. Tremaine will not want her again, after she has been mixed up in such a disgraceful affair. I wonder you should keep her. I think the poorhouse is good enough for her.'"
"Miss Perkins is not worth minding," said Hector. "If you are going to let your peace be blighted by the breath of such as she, my lass, you will never have any, for you will find that kind of people everywhere. Now, have we got to the bottom of the trouble?"
"I believe so."
"Well, my lamb, I'll not deny that they are great and sore troubles to fall on a young thing like you, but I think there is 'balm in Gilead' for them all. As to your being disgraced, we may as well call the thing by its right name. You must just make up your mind not to be cast down by that. It is a cross, and it is to be borne, as other crosses are borne, by the help of God's grace; and being thus borne, you may make it into a blessing. Really good people will not think less of you for your misfortunes, but there are those who rejoice in iniquity of all sorts, and such will be ready to cast up your parents' sins against you, specially if you go wrong.
"But if you resolutely and steadily do your duty, the matter will soon be overlooked and forgotten, or only remembered to your credit. Above all, don't let it embitter you. That was the great mistake your poor mother made, to my thinking."
"I know," said Therese; "she would not go to church, or even to the village to see her mother, because she said everybody looked down on her, and said, 'There goes Tone Beaubien's wife.' And now I suppose they will say, 'There goes Tone Beaubien's daughter.'"
"Never mind if they do. There used to be an old college in Aberdeen—Marischal * College it was called—with these words carved over the door:
"'They have said—
What said they?
Let them say!'
"That was the motto of the auld earls Marischal lang syne, and it is a good one for you now. 'Let them say!' Resolve that you will make a character for yourself, and that will be the best way to make people forget your poor father and mother's faults."
* Pronounced Marshall.
"If I thought I could do that!" said Therese, brightening.
"I am quite sure you can. As to your mother's leaving you for your father, I suppose the poor thing reasoned in this way: 'Therese doesn't need me. She has her grandfather and grandmother, and plenty of friends besides, to care for her, while my poor husband has nobody. I am only a trouble and disgrace to her, but I can be a help and comfort to him.' Mind, I don't say she was right, but I presume she thought she was."
"I see," said Therese; "but she might have known that I did not think her a trouble."
"My lass, to tell you the truth, I think your mother's mind was warped by her afflictions. She was not insane, but she was unsettled in her mind; she lived by herself and brood over her misfortunes till she had no power to see things as they are."
"That is true," said Therese, sighing; "but, after all, Mr. McGregor, it does not seem to alter the fact. She has always been my object, and now she is gone, and I have no other."
"And you a Christian?" said the old man, simply.
Therese started. "I don't understand," said she.
"You are a Christian, Therese, are you not—not only a Christian in name—everybody in this country is that—but you love your Saviour and desire to serve him?"
"Yes, I do," said Therese, in a low tone, but without any indecision. "I wish I loved him a great deal more than I do, though."
"Well, my lammie, does not that give you an object in life? And ought you to feel wholly alone when you have such precious promises:
"'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and
through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.'
"'If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him,
and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.'
"'Who hath the Father and the Son
May be left, but not alone.'
"And since he permits you to work for him, what greater object do you want than that of promoting God's glory and honour, and the spread of his kingdom among men?"
"It seems too good to be true—too great and glorious for one like me," said Therese, in a low voice; "it seems like presumption."
"Never think that, Therese, never think that all the promises, yea, all the power and goodness and riches and love of your Heavenly Father, are not as much for you as for anybody else in the world. Live for him, and give yourself to him, and he will give himself to you. You may, I dare to say you will, have many and sore battles to fight with loneliness and discouragement and temptations, for you are not one of those over whom the troubles of this world pass the easiest. But always remember that He is on your side, and that you are fighting for him. Pray for and try to cultivate a sense of his love and his constant presence—believe me, it is a thing to be cultivated; make a daily renewal of your consecration to him, and make every sorrow and every temptation, yea, and every sin and failing, drive you nearer to and not away from him. Now, I have tired you out with this long screed of talk, and the doctor will be scolding in his conceited fashion.
"He is a real Campbell, yon lad—not that I have anything against the Campbells; they were good friends to our folk langsyne."
"You have not tired me one bit," said Therese; "you have done me a great deal of good. Thank you ever so much."
"You look better this evening," said Doctor Campbell, when he came in to see Therese.
"I am better," answered Therese.
CHAPTER IX.
"FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW."
FROM this time a great change was observed in Therese; her health improved rapidly; she was able to go about the house, and she soon began to help here and there in household matters, and to wait not only on herself but on other people.
Mrs. Tremaine had been suddenly called to New York on important business, and she had closed her house, leaving Kitty with Mrs. Parmalee, as she did not wish to take her out of school. Grandfather Beaubien or old Madame Duval would gladly have taken Therese home, for both the old people were fond and proud of their grandchild in their different ways, but Doctor Campbell thought it would hardly be prudent to expose Therese to the excitement of talking over family matters and meeting family friends, and Miss Baby had invited her to remain till Mrs. Tremaine's return.
Kitty came up to see her every few days, and the two girls had many long talks together, sitting under the great elm tree, or walking by the side of the brook in the meadow, or over the big wheel on which Therese was a skilful and rapid performer, and which Kitty, was learning to manage almost as well as herself. To Kitty, and to her alone, Therese repeated her conversation with old Hector and its effect on her own mind, and Kitty sympathized with and understood her.
The girls took some pains to include Marion in their walks and talks, but without success. In truth, Marion was jealous. She had always coveted an intimacy with Kitty, but Kitty did not respond. Kind and obliging and ready to help Marion on all occasions, she did not however care for those long, whispered conversations in which Marion delighted, and she did not sympathize with Marion's grievances in school. Kitty adored Miss Oliver, and thought the school perfect, and she rather resented Marion's complaints as imputations on her friends.
Therese had much the same feeling for Kitty that Kitty had for Miss Oliver, and moreover regarded the lot of a Crocker school-girl as one of the most enviable which this world afforded. Then Kitty had done a great deal for Therese, and naturally liked her on that account.
Marion was walking home from school in anything but a comfortable mood. For a while, after Miss Oliver's warning, she had done much better, greatly to the satisfaction of the teacher. But she had latterly become careless again. The heiress of the McGregors was once more suffered to intrude herself into the school-room, and her society was not favourable to lessons. She had latterly come out in a new character.
Uncle Alick had taken occasion to abstract Marion's favourite volume from the Sunday school library, together with several others which did not meet with his approbation. Marion however, had gained possession of it and read it again and again, and the more she read it, the more resemblance she saw between the heroine and herself. Maria, the heroine, was brought up in the country by an uncongenial aunt and uncle, who wanted her to work—so was she. Maria had aspirations with which nobody sympathized, and longed to make for herself a career, and to accomplish some grand work for humanity—so did she. She spent hours in dreaming over this great work, which was sometimes the founding of a sisterhood, sometimes of a hospital, sometimes the writing of a book which should take then world by storm, but always something which should redound to the praise and glory of Marion McGregor.
There was one point, however, in which Marion could not bring herself to sympathize with her favourite heroine. Maria, in casting away the restraints and duties of her home, had also cast behind her, as the author expressed it, "the restraints and trammels of that narrow and oppressive theology in which she had been brought up."
Marion could not have done this, even if she had wished; and, to do her justice, she did not wish it. She had been religiously educated, and she was punctual in fulfilling certain religious duties. At times, indeed, she thought herself decidedly a Christian, because she had strong religious emotions; because her feelings were touched by some tale of self-sacrificing godliness, or her taste gratified by some fine sermon or piece of sacred poetry. She had a vague longing for something that she called "the higher life," because she had read the phrase in some book which pleased her, but she couldn't in the least define what she meant or wanted. But she was not willing to own even to herself that most of her life had been a mistake, that she had failed and was failing in almost everything. She would not own to herself, much less to her aunt and Miss Oliver, that she had been idle, selfish, and discontented; that she had made false excuses, and taken dishonest ways of helping herself out when her lessons were not learned or her exercises were not ready. She could not bring herself to own that she habitually disregarded the comfort and the feelings of others, while she expected everybody to consider her own. Above all, she could not bear to give up her darling day-dreams of wealth, splendour, and distinction. She would not take up the cross, and therefore she could not be a disciple. But she always hoped that a time would come when, as she said, "her hindrances would be removed," and it would be easy for her to become out and out a Christian. In the mean time her prayers and her Bible-readings kept her from drifting utterly away, and at least stored her memory with seeds of truth which might some time or other blossom and bear fruit.
Marion, as I said, was walking home from school in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. She had been kept after school, but only for a few minutes, while Miss Oliver kindly and sadly but forcibly warned her that unless the next three weeks showed a very decided amendment, her name must be erased from the roll of the Crocker school. Miss Oliver had not wasted many words.
"I shall not lecture you, Marion. I know that you dislike it and that it is utterly useless. You know your duty without my telling you. You know that you are wasting your time and opportunities, misusing your talents and injuring the school by your bad example. No words would make that any plainer to you than it is now, and I shall therefore spare my time and yours. You had no right to expect another warning but, because I love you and respect your family I give it you. You cannot honestly say that I have ever been unjust to you or that I have not given you every chance. I have bestowed as much labour on you as on any girl in the school, but I see that it is thrown away, and I cannot afford to throw it away any longer."
Miss Oliver's manner was not only serious but solemn, and Marion's heart was touched and her conscience stirred in spite of herself. She knew that Miss Oliver spoke only truth, and for a moment she thought she would say she was sorry and promise to do better; but she did not. While she was hesitating, Miss Oliver was called away and the chance was lost for ever.
"It is just as well," said Marion to herself. "Very likely she would say she didn't want any professions or something else like that, and besides I don't really believe she would dare turn me out, when Uncle Alick is one of the trustees. But I do mean to do better. I have been behindhand this week, that's a fact. Even Jane Dryer has got above me. Oh, dear! How I do wish I could get away from it all and begin new! Things have got so wrong that they will never come right. If I could begin in a new place, I know I should do better, but there is no use in it here where everything would be remembered against me."
As Marion came to the turn in the valley I have spoken of before, she met Therese and Kitty. Therese's face wore more of its old joyous expression than it had done since the day she discovered her mother's absence, and she and Kitty were chattering volubly in French.
"They think she has so much feeling," said Marion to herself. "I don't believe Aunt Christian would think so if she were to see her now."
"Oh, Marion, I was coming to meet you," said Therese, breaking off her conversation as she caught sight of Marion. "There is a letter for you at home. It came with one to Miss Baby, and I think it is from your father-in-law or your mother, because there is a written post-mark on the outside."
"Well, good-night, girls. I must hurry home," said Kitty. "Therese, mother says she shall expect you to-morrow." And she added a few words in French, to which Therese responded and went on her way.
"I don't think Kitty is very polite to be talking French before me," said Marion, as they turned toward the red house.
"Oh, that was nothing. It only meant 'Rest well and have sweet dreams.' It is a line from a French song that she sings," said Therese. "Kitty wouldn't be rude for anything, I am sure."
"Why didn't she come to school this afternoon?" asked Marion.
"She was excused because her mother came home this morning and there was a great deal to see to. Just think! Mrs. Tremaine has had some money left her in France that she didn't expect the least in the world: isn't that nice? I think it is such fun to have things come that you don't expect."
"I think they are always having things left them," remarked Marion. "There was that old lady who gave Kitty her furniture."
"Yes, but they did not get any money that time, only clothes and furniture and books. Kitty told me so herself. She says she never can have a new dress because she must wear out all Mrs. Leffington's old ones."
"I don't think she need mind that so long as they are so handsome," said Marion. "I am sure I wouldn't complain if I had such merinos and cloths for Sunday as Kitty wears to school."
"She doesn't complain, only in fun. She likes them better than new ones. Her mother won't let her have the handsomest—the silks and velvets and so on—because she says they are not suitable for a little girl. Oh, I am so glad Mrs. Tremaine has come home, only she isn't going to stay. I'll tell you something about that; only don't tell, because perhaps she wouldn't care to have it talked about till it is all settled. You know I told you that she had some property left her in France."
"Well?" said Marion, much interested and forgetting her own troubles for the minute.
"Well, a part of the property is a house in a town somewhere near Paris; I can't think of the name, but it is a very pretty place, and the house is a very nice house, only old-fashioned. I don't just understand how it is, but by the way the will is made Mrs. Tremaine has to live in the house a certain time, and so she is going to close her house here and sail for France the last of August; and if grandfather is willing, she is going to take me with her. Just think of that!"
"It is exactly like something in a novel," said Marion. "To go and live in an old house in France, with the old furniture and everything! I should think you would be ready to fly."
"It isn't settled yet, you know," said Therese. "But I am glad, for a good many reasons. I am glad not to have to leave Mrs. Tremaine and Kitty, whom I love dearly; and as things are, I am not very sorry to go away from Holford, though every one has been very good to me."
"I am sure I wish somebody would take me away," said Marion. "I would give anything to get away from the old place and never see it again."
"Oh, Marion, how can you, when you have such a lovely home!" exclaimed Therese reproachfully. "You wouldn't want to go and leave your grandfather and your aunt and uncle? I think they are the very best people I ever saw."
Marion was saved the necessity of an answer by their arrival at the door, where Aunt Baby stood waiting with a letter in her hand. There were traces of tears in her eyes, an unwonted sight, but she welcomed the girls cheerfully as usual.
"I have a letter for you, Marie," said she. "What kept you so long?"
"I had to stay to finish up something," answered Marion, giving her usual excuse. "Where is the letter?"
"Here on the table."
Marion seized it eagerly.
"From Hemlock Valley!" said she, as she tore open the envelope. "I wonder what has made mother write so soon again?"
"You will see when you read it."
Marion hurried through her letter, and then burst out—
"Oh, how splendid! How delightful! Just think, Therese Mr. Van Alstine has an excellent teacher for his children and those of his partner Mr. Overbeck, and he wants me to come and be educated with them. He says the lady is very accomplished, and I shall have every advantage, and by and by perhaps he will send me to boarding-school. Isn't that lovely, and coming just now, too? When shall I go, Aunt Baby?"
But Aunt Baby had left the room, and it was Aunt Christian who answered rather gravely:
"You are in a great hurry, Marion. It is not decided that you are to go at all yet. Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstine refer the matter entirely to your aunt and your grandfather. Nothing has been decided yet."
"Oh, but of course it will be settled so. It must be!" exclaimed Marion. "Mother has a right to me if she wants me!"
"Some people might think Aunt Baby had some rights in the case, seeing she has taken care of you almost ever since you were born," said Mrs. Campbell.
"I don't think Aunt Baby ought to put herself in the way when the change is so much for my advantage," said Marion. "She ought to consider me and not herself altogether, I think."
"If she does consider herself, it will be the first time I have ever known her to do such a thing," said Mrs. Campbell, considerably provoked. "I think you had better go by all means, Marion, and perhaps you may find that every change is not an improvement."
She left the room as she spoke.
Therese, with her usual tact, had withdrawn at the beginning of the dialogue, and when Marion found herself alone she began to consider her words as usual, and to reflect that Aunt Christian would think her very heartless for being so ready to leave her home.
But her pleasure in the prospect before her was too great to allow her to torment herself very long on that account. How splendid it would be! She would be the only girl in a family of boys. That of itself would be a distinction. She resolved at once that she would be a model only sister. No doubt the boys were rough cubs, rude to each other, careless and overbearing, if not absolutely unkind to their stepmother. Mr. Van Alstine was a hemlock tanner as his father and grandfather had been before him, and by consequence had lived in the woods all his life. Of course he was an ignorant man, and his sons would be like him. There would probably be a rude plenty, but no refinement or elegance: the boys would sit with their hats on, eat with their knives, and put their feet on the mantel-piece. She would be the refining and civilizing influence which should support her feeble mother, conciliate the rough father-in-law and convert by degrees this den of bears into a household of gentlemen. She would support the teacher's authority, sympathize with her trials and tastes and smooth the roughness of her way.