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Marion Berkley: A Story for Girls

by Elizabeth B. Comins · English · Gutenberg #41524 · 431,724 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Marion Berkley: A Story for Girls

Author: Elizabeth B. Comins


        
Release date: December 1, 2012 [eBook #41524]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARION BERKLEY: A STORY FOR GIRLS ***

                       MARION BERKLEY

                      A STORY FOR GIRLS

                    BY ELIZABETH B. COMINS


    PHILADELPHIA
    HENRY T. COATES & CO

    Copyright, 1870, by A. K. Loring.




             TO
       MY TWIN SISTERS
          THIS BOOK
    IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY
         _DEDICATED_.




[Illustration: THE TWO BOUQUETS.]




MARION BERKLEY.




CHAPTER I.

EN ROUTE FOR SCHOOL.


"Come on, Mab! the carriage is round; only fifteen minutes to get to the
depot."

"Yes, I am coming. O mamma! do fasten this carpet-bag for me. Dear me!
there goes the button off my gloves. Was there ever any one in such a
flutter?"

"Never mind, dear; it is too late to sew it on now. Here is your bag;
come, we must not stop another moment; there is Fred calling again."

"I say, Mab," shouted the first speaker from the bottom of the stairs,
"if you're coming, why don't you come? I shan't leave until you bid me
good-by, and I know I shall lose the ball-match. You do keep a fellow
waiting so eternally long!"

His sister was downstairs, and had her arms around his neck before he
had finished speaking, and said to him, in a tone of mock gravity, "Now,
Frederic, don't get excited; always follow my good example, and keep
cool. There now!" she exclaimed, as she gave him a hearty kiss; "be
off. I forgot all about your ball-match, and all the amends I can make
is to hope the Isthmians will beat the Olympics all to pieces."

"Come, come," called Mrs. Berkley from the inside of the carriage, "we
have not a moment to lose."

"Good-by, Hannah. One more kiss for Mab, Charlie. Good-by, all;" then to
the coachman, as she whisked into the carriage, "Drive on, John, just as
fast as you can."

The carriage-door was shut with a snap; off went the horses, and Mrs.
Berkley and her daughter were soon at the Western depot, where the
latter was to take the cars for B----, a little New England town, where
she attended boarding-school. They were very late at the depot, and Mrs.
Berkley had only time for a fond kiss and a "Write often, darling," when
the bell rung, and she was forced to leave the car, feeling a little
uneasy that her daughter was obliged to take her journey alone. Just as
the cars were starting, Marion put her head out of a window, and called
to her mother, "O mamma! Flo is here; isn't that jolly? No fear now
of--" The last part of the sentence was unintelligible, and all Mrs.
Berkley got was a bright smile, and a wave of the hand, as the train
moved out of the depot.

"Now, Flo, I call this providential," exclaimed Marion; "for, I can tell
you, I did not relish the prospect of my solitary ride. Just hand me
your bag, and I'll put it in the rack with my budgets. This seat is
empty; suppose we turn it over, and then we shall be perfectly
comfortable. Now I say this is decidedly scrumptious;" and she settled
herself back, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Why, Mab, what made you so late? I had been here fifteen minutes before
you came, all on the _qui vive_, hoping to see some one I knew; but I
never dreamed you would be here. I thought you were going up yesterday
with the Thayers."

"I did intend to; but Fred had a sort of spread last night for the
Isthmians, so I stayed over. I expect Miss Stiefbach will give me one of
her annihilators, but I guess I can stand it. I've been withered so many
times, that the glances of those 'eagle eyes' have rather lost their
effect."

"Well, I only wish I had a little more of your spirit of resistance.
What a lovely hat you have! Just suits your style. Where did you get
it?"

"Why, it's only my old sun-down dyed and pressed over, and bound with
the velvet off my old brown rep. I trimmed it myself, and feel mighty
proud of it."

"Trimmed it yourself!--really? Well, I never saw such a girl; you can do
anything! I couldn't have done it to save my life. I only wish to
gracious I could; it would be very convenient sometimes."

And so the two girls rattled on for some time, in true school-girl
fashion; but at last they each took a book, and settled back into their
respective corners. Before very long, however, Marion tossed her book on
to the opposite seat; for they were coming to Lake Cochituate, and
nothing could be lovelier than the view which was stretching itself
before them. I do not think that half the people of Massachusetts
realize how beautiful this piece of water is; but I believe, if they had
seen it then, they surely must have appreciated its charms.

It was about the middle of September, and the leaves were just beginning
to turn; indeed, some of them were already quite brilliant. The day was
soft and hazy,--just such a one as we often have in early autumn, and
the slight mist of the atmosphere served to soften and harmonize the
various colors of the landscape. The lake itself was as clear and smooth
as polished glass, and every tree on the borders was distinctly
reflected on its clear bosom; while the delicate blue sky, with the few
feathery clouds floating across it seemed to be far beneath the surface
of the water.

Marion was at heart a true artist, and had all a true artist's intense
love of nature; she now sat at the window, completely absorbed in the
scene before her, her eye and mind taking in all the beauties of form,
color, and reflection; and as the cars bore her too swiftly by she
uttered a sigh of real regret.

Perhaps there will be no better time than the present for giving my
young readers a description of my heroine. My tale will contain no
thrilling incidents, no hairbreadth escapes, or any of those startling
events with which ideas of heroism are generally associated. It will be
a simple story of a school-girl's life; its fun and frolic; its
temptations, trials, and victories.

Marion Berkley was a remarkably beautiful girl; but she owed her beauty
chiefly to the singular contrast of her hair and eyes. The former was a
beautiful golden color, while her eyes, eyebrows, and lashes were very
dark. Her nose and mouth, though well formed, could not be considered in
any way remarkable. When in conversation her face became animated, the
expression changed with each inward emotion, and her eyes sparkled
brilliantly; but when in repose they assumed a softer, dreamier look,
which seemed to hint of a deeper nature beneath this gay and often
frivolous exterior.

Mr. Berkley was very fond of his daughter. He had a large circle of
acquaintances, many of whom were in the habit of dining, or passing the
evening, at his house, and it pleased him very much to have them notice
her. Marion was by no means a vain girl; yet these attentions from those
so much older than herself were rather inclined to turn her head.
Fortunately, her mother was a very lovely and sensible woman, whose good
example and sound advice served to counteract those influences which
might otherwise have proved very injurious.

And now that I have introduced my friends to Marion, it is no more than
fair that I should present them to her companion. Florence Stevenson was
a bright, pretty brunette, of sixteen. She and Marion had been friends
ever since they made "mud pies" together in the Berkleys' back yard.
They shared the same room at school, got into the same scrapes, kept
each other's secrets, and were, in short, almost inseparable. Florence
had lost her mother when she was very young, and her father's house was
ruled over by a well-meaning, but disagreeable maiden-aunt, who, by her
constant and oftentimes unnecessary fault-finding, made Florence so
unhappy, that she had hailed with delight her father's proposition of
going away to school. For three years Florence and Marion had been
almost daily together, being only separated during vacations, when, as
Florence lived five miles from Boston, it was impossible that they
should see as much of each other as they would have liked.

About four in the afternoon, the girls reached their destination; rather
tired out by their long ride, but, nevertheless, in excellent spirits.
Miss Stiefbach, after a few remarks as to the propriety of being a day
before, rather than an hour behind time, dismissed them to their rooms
to prepare for supper, where for the present we will leave them.




CHAPTER II.

SCHOOL.


Miss Stiefbach and her sister Christine, were two excellent German
ladies who, owing to a sudden reverse of fortune, were obliged to leave
their mother-country, hoping to find means of supporting themselves in
America. They were most kindly received by the gentlemen to whom they
brought letters of introduction, and with their assistance they had been
able to open a school for young ladies; and now, at the end of seven
years, they found themselves free from debt, and at the head of one of
the best boarding-schools in the United States.

Miss Stiefbach, the head and director of the establishment, was a stern,
cold, forbidding woman; acting on what she considered to be the most
strictly conscientious principles, but never unbending in the slightest
degree her frigid, repelling manner. To look at her was enough to have
told you her character at once. She was above the medium height,
excessively thin and angular in her figure, and was always dressed in
some stiff material, which, as Marion Berkley expressed it, "looked as
if it had been starched and frozen, and had never been thawed out."

Miss Christine was fifteen years her junior, and her exact opposite in
appearance as well as in disposition: she was short and stout, and
rosy-cheeked, not at all pretty; but having such a kind smile, such a
thoroughly good-natured face, that the girls all thought she was really
beautiful, and would feel more repentance at one of her grieved looks,
than they would for forty of Miss Stiefbach's frigid reprimands. And
well they might love her, for she certainly was a kind friend to them.
Many a school-girl trick or frolic had she concealed, which, if it had
come under the searching eyes of her sister, would have secured the
perpetrators as stern a rebuke, and perhaps as severe a punishment, as
if they had committed some great wrong.

Miss Stiefbach's school was by no means what is generally called a
"fashionable school." The parents of the young girls who went there
wished that their daughters should receive not only a sound education,
but that they should be taught many useful things not always included in
the list of a young lady's accomplishments.

There were thirty scholars, ranging from the ages of seventeen to ten;
two in each room. They were obliged to make their own beds, and take all
the care of their rooms, except the sweeping. Every Saturday morning
they all assembled in the school-room to darn their stockings, and do
whatever other mending might be necessary. Formerly Miss Stiefbach
herself had superintended their work, but for the last year she had put
it under the charge of Miss Christine; an arrangement which was
extremely pleasing to the girls, making for them a pleasant pastime of
what had always been an irksome duty. After their mending was done, and
their Bible lesson for the following Sabbath learned, the rest of the
day was at their own disposal. Those who had friends in the neighborhood
generally went to visit them; while the others took long walks, or
occupied themselves in doing whatever best pleased them. There were of
course some restrictions; but these were so slight, and so reasonable,
that no one ever thought of complaining, and the day was almost always
one of real enjoyment. Miss Stiefbach herself was an Episcopalian, and
always required that every one, unless prevented by illness, should
attend that church in the morning; but, in the afternoon, any girl who
wished might go to any other church, first signifying her intention to
one or the other of the sisters.

Some of Miss Stiefbach's ancestors had suffered from religious
persecutions in Germany, and, although she felt it her duty to have her
scholars attend what she considered to be the "true church," she could
not have it on her conscience to be the means of preventing any one from
worshipping God in whatever manner their hearts dictated.




CHAPTER III.

MONSIEUR BÉRANGER.


It was the half-hour intermission at school; and Marion and Florence had
taken Julia Thayer up into their room to give her a taste of some of the
goodies they had brought from home with them. Their room was one of the
largest in the house, having two deep windows; one in front, the other
on the side. The side window faced the west, and in it the girls had
placed a very pretty flower-stand filled with plants; an ivy was trained
against the side, and a lovely mirandia hung from the top. The front
window had a long seat fitted into it, and as it overlooked the street
it was here that the girls almost always sat at their work or studies.

"Now, Julie," began Marion, "which will you have, sponge or currant?"

"Why, you are getting awfully stingy!" exclaimed Flo; "give her some of
both."

"No, she can't have both; it is altogether too extravagant. This is my
treat, and you need not make any comments."

"Well, if I can't have but one, I think I'll try sponge."

"Sensible girl! you knew it would not keep long. There, you shall have
an Havana orange to pay you for your consideration."

"Please, ma'am," said Flo, in a voice of mock humility, "may I give her
some of my French candies?"

"Yes, if you'll be a very good girl, and never interfere again when I am
'head-cook and bottle-washer.'"

The girls sat round the room chatting and eating; Flora and Julia were
on the bed, when Marion, who was at the front window, jumped up on the
seat, and called out: "O Flo! Julie! do come here! Just look at this man
coming down the street. Such a swell!"

The two girls rushed precipitately to the window, and they all stood
looking out with intense interest.

"I do declare, he is coming in here! Who in the world can he be? How he
struts!" said Marion. "What a startling mustache! I do wonder who in the
world he is."

"Allow me to see, young ladies; perhaps I can inform you," said a calm
voice directly in their ears; and, turning, they beheld Miss Stiefbach.
She had entered the room just as they began their comments, and now
stood directly behind them. Florence and Julia fell back in dismay, and
for a second a look of amazement passed over Marion's face; but it was
only a second, for she instantly replied to Miss Stiefbach, in the same
eager tone she had used when speaking to her companions: "Jump right up
here; you can see him better, for he is underneath on the steps."

Miss Stiefbach looked at her aghast, and for once she was overpowered.
She, the calm, the dignified, the stately Miss Stiefbach--jump! It was
too much. If a glance could have transfixed her, Marion would have been
immovable for life. Miss Stiefbach's usually pale face was flushed to a
burning red, and her voice was choked with suppressed excitement, as she
said, "Young ladies, you will go at once to the school-room. Miss
Berkley, report to me in my study, immediately after the close of
school;" and she sailed out of the room.

When she was gone, the girls stood and looked at each other, not exactly
knowing whether to laugh or cry; but Marion decided for herself, by
sitting down on the floor, and bursting into a fit of uncontrollable
laughter. Florence held up her finger warningly, "Hush-sh-sh! Mab,
she'll hop out from under the bed, like as not; do come downstairs."

"O girls! girls! that look!" shouted Marion. "Oh, I shall die! She was
furious. Won't I catch it?"

"O Mab, how did you dare? It was awfully impudent."

"I know it, and I'm sure I don't know what made me say it. I never
stopped to think; it just popped out, and I would not have lost that
scene for anything;" and Marion went off again into one of her
laughing-fits.

"O Mab, do stop!" said Julia, rather impatiently; "you'll get us into a
pretty scrape."

"Well, I won't laugh another bit, if I can help it; come on!" and,
jumping up, Marion ran downstairs, the others following her, into the
school-room; when, what was their astonishment to see before them "the
swell," who had been the cause of all their trouble, standing talking to
Miss Stiefbach. They went quietly to their seats, wondering what would
happen next. Marion whispered to Flo, "The new French teacher; a man, as
I live, and not very old either. Won't we have fun?"

"Young ladies of the first class in French go into the anteroom, where
M. Béranger will examine you. Miss Christine, accompany them, and
preserve order." As Miss Stiefbach said this in her usual calm tones,
Marion's recollections were almost too much for her; but she had a
little laugh all to herself, behind the cover of her desk, as she took
out her books.

The former French teacher had been a little, quiet woman, who had
allowed herself to be ruled over by her pupils; but she had gone back to
France, and Miss Stiefbach had secured the services of M. Béranger, who
was recommended to her, both for his complete knowledge of his own
language, and for his high moral character. The latter was indeed to be
considered, for many foreigners, calling themselves professors, often
prove to be mere worthless adventurers, knowing very little themselves
of what they attempt to teach others, and being in other respects unfit
for respectable society.

The young ladies were in quite a little flutter of expectation, as they
took their seats, for Mr. Stein, their old music-teacher, was the only
gentleman teacher of the establishment, and he was decidedly different
from this rather elegant-looking Frenchman. M. Béranger came in, bowed
in a dignified manner, took his chair, and at once began questioning the
girls as to what they had studied, how far they were advanced, etc.
Marion, who was ready for anything, and thought she might as well have a
little more fun for the scolding that she knew was in store for her,
tried hard to get up a little excitement; pretending not to understand
when M. Béranger spoke to her; replying to all his questions in English,
notwithstanding his repeated ejaculations of "Mademoiselle, je ne vous
comprends pas du tout; parlez Français." But Marion would not "parlez
Français," disregarding the beseeching looks of Miss Christine, and
either made no reply, or obstinately spoke in English. For some time M.
Béranger took no notice of her conduct, but went on questioning the rest
of the class; assuring the timid by his polite, considerate patience,
and quietly correcting the mistakes of the more confident. At last,
however, as Marion asked him some trifling question, he looked her
directly in the face, and simply replied, "M'lle Berkley, si vous parlez
l'Anglais, il faut que je vous mette dans la classe des petites filles."

Marion looked at him a moment, in doubt whether he could be in earnest;
but there was no mistaking that calm, determined look. Two things were
before her: to rebel, and go down to the lower class in disgrace, or to
yield gracefully to what she knew to be right. She chose the latter, and
replied, "Monsieur, je pense que je resterai ici." As she said this,
there was a slight flush of shame on her cheeks, and she bent her head
with a little gesture, which seemed to beg pardon for her rudeness. At
any rate, M. Béranger so understood it, and he ever afterwards
entertained a secret respect and admiration for M'lle Berkley.

That night, in her own room, Marion thus explained her singular conduct:
"You see, Flo, I wanted to find out, in the first place, what sort of
stuff he was made of; whether he was to rule us, or we him, as we did
poor little mademoiselle; and I found out pretty quickly. He came here
to teach, not to be made game of. In two weeks, I expect to have the
true Parisian accent, and to have entirely forgotten all the English I
ever knew. Bonne nuit, ma chère;" and Marion turned over, and was asleep
in five minutes.




CHAPTER IV.

MARION'S SENTENCE.


Immediately after the close of school Marion betook herself to the
private study of Miss Stiefbach. This was a small room back of the
drawing-room, fitted up very cosily and comfortably, and which no one
but the sisters ever entered, except on state occasions, or under
circumstances like the present. It must be confessed that Marion did not
feel very comfortable as the door closed behind her, and Miss Stiefbach,
who was sitting at her desk, turned round, motioning her to be seated.
Marion knew she had done very wrong, and was really sorry for it, for,
although none of the scholars could be said to have much affection for
Miss Stiefbach, they all held her in the most profound respect, and no
such direct attack upon her dignity had ever been made within the memory
of any of the present pupils.

Miss Stiefbach cleared her throat, and commenced speaking in her most
impressive and awful voice. "Miss Berkley" (the fact that she addressed
Marion in this very distant manner proved at once that she was very
angry), "your conduct to me this day has been such as I have never seen
in any young lady since I became the head of this establishment, and I
consider it deserves a severe punishment. The remarks which I overheard
this morning, as I entered your room, were enough in themselves to have
merited a stern rebuke, even if they had not been followed by a direct
insult to myself. I am surprised indeed, that any young ladies brought
up in refined society should have made use of such expressions as
'_swell_' and--and--other words of a like nature." It was evidently so
hard for Miss Stiefbach to pronounce the word, even in a tone of intense
disapproval, that Marion, despite her uneasiness, could not help being
amused; but no trace of her feelings could be seen in her face; she sat
before her teacher perfectly quiet,--so quiet, that Miss Stiefbach could
not tell whether she was deeply repentant or supremely indifferent.

"I have decided," resumed Miss Stiefbach, "that as M. Béranger was
indirectly connected with the affair, you shall apologize to me before
the whole school, and in his presence, on the next French day, which
will be Friday. I should not have subjected you to this mortification,
if you had shown any willingness to apologize to me here; but as you
seem entirely insensible of the impropriety of your conduct, I consider
that the punishment is perfectly just."

Marion rose; for one second her eyes had flashed ominously when her
sentence was delivered, but it was the only sign she gave of being
surprised or otherwise moved. Perceiving that Miss Stiefbach had nothing
more to say, she left the room as quietly as she had entered it. Several
of the girls were standing at the study door waiting for her to come
out, for the whole story had by this time become pretty freely
circulated, and every one was impatient to know the result of the
interview. Marion passed them without a glance, and without speaking,
but with the most perfect _sang froid_, and went directly upstairs to
her room. But once there her forced composure gave way, and, throwing
herself on the bed, she burst into a passion of tears.

Florence, who had been anxiously waiting for Marion to come up, knelt
down beside her, smoothing her hair, calling her by all their fond, pet
names, and doing everything she could to soothe and quiet her, but never
once asking the questions that were uppermost in her own mind, for she
knew that, as soon as this first hysterical fit of weeping was over, her
friend would tell her all. She waited some time, until she became almost
frightened, for Marion's sobs shook her from head to foot, and she
seemed unable to control herself.

Suddenly Marion sprang up, and exclaimed in the most excited, passionate
tones, "Florence! Florence! what do you think she is going to make me
do? Think of the most humiliating thing you can!"

"Indeed, my darling, I cannot guess," replied Flo, while she had hard
work to restrain her own tears.

"I have got to apologize to her before the whole school, and before M.
Béranger next Friday. Oh! I think it is abominable. She wouldn't have
made any other girl do it, but she knows how proud I am, and she thinks
now she'll humble me. Oh, it is too hard, too hard to bear!" and Marion
threw herself back on the pillow, and sobbed aloud.

Poor Florence was completely overpowered. Distressed as she was for her
friend, and furiously indignant with Miss Stiefbach, she hardly dared to
comfort and sympathize with her, except by caresses, for fear of
increasing her excitement, and she could only throw her arms round
Marion's neck, kissing her repeatedly, and exclaiming again and again,
"I wish I could help you!--I wish I could help you!"

But after a while the violence of Marion's grief and anger subsided, but
left its traces in a severe headache; her temples throbbed fearfully,
and her face and hands were burning hot.

Florence wet a cloth in cold water, and laid it on her head, and,
knowing that Marion would prefer to be alone, she kissed her quietly,
and as her eyes were closed was about to leave the room without
speaking, when Marion called her back, exclaiming, "Don't tell the
girls anything about it; they'll find it out soon enough."

"No, dear, I won't mention it, if I can help it. You lie still and try
to get to sleep. Don't come downstairs to supper. I will excuse you to
Miss Christine, and bring you up a cup of tea."

"No! no! no!" excitedly repeated Marion; "do no such thing. I wouldn't
stay up from supper, if it killed me to go down; it would only prove to
old Stiffback how deep she has cut, and I mean she shall find it will
take more than _she_ can do to humble me. Be sure and let me know when
the bell rings. I don't think there is much danger of my going to sleep;
but for fear I should, you come up before tea,--won't you?"

Flo promised, and giving her another kiss, and advising her again to lie
still and go to sleep,--a thing which she knew it was impossible for
Marion to do,--she left the room.

Left to herself Marion became a prey to her own varying emotions. Pride,
anger, and mortification were rankling in her breast. When she thought
of the coming disgrace which she was to endure, she sobbed and wept as
if her heart would break; and then the image of Miss Stiefbach, with her
calm, cool face, and deliberate manner, seeming so much as if she
enjoyed giving such pain, rose before her mind, and she clenched her
hands, and shut her teeth together, looking as she felt, willing to do
almost anything to revenge herself.

In her inmost heart she had been truly sorry for having spoken so
impertinently to her teacher, and she had gone to the study fully
prepared to acknowledge that she had done wrong, and to ask pardon for
her fault. But Miss Stiefbach, by presupposing that she felt no regret
for her conduct, or any desire to apologize, had frozen all such
feelings, and roused all the rebellious part of the girl's nature.

For some time Marion tossed restlessly from side to side; but at last,
finding it impossible to quiet herself, much less to sleep, she got up,
bathed her face, and prepared to arrange her disordered hair.

To her excited imagination, it seemed almost as if she could hear the
girls downstairs discussing the whole matter. Every laugh she heard she
believed to be at her expense, and she dreaded meeting her companions,
knowing full well that her looks and actions would be the subject of
general comment.

Throughout the school Marion was not a general favorite; almost all the
girls admired her, but there were few who felt that they really knew
her.

She was acknowledged by almost all her companions to be the brightest
and prettiest girl in the school, and was apparently on good terms with
all of them; but that was all. Many who would have liked to know her
better, and who would have been glad to make advances of intimate
friendship, felt themselves held back from doing so, by a certain
haughty, reserved manner, which she at times assumed, and by her own
evident disinclination for anything more than an amicable school-girl
acquaintance.

Marion was quick to perceive the petty weaknesses and follies of these
around her, and her keen sense of the ludicrous, combined with a habit
of saying sharp, sarcastic things, often led her to draw out these
foibles, and show them up in their most absurd light.

No one knew her faults better than Marion herself, and she was
constantly struggling to overcome them; but her pride and strong will
led her to conceal her real feelings, and often when she was at heart
angry with herself, and ashamed of her wilful, perhaps unkind, behavior,
she would assume an aspect of supreme indifference, effectually
deceiving every one as to what was really passing in her mind.

She kept her struggles to herself. No one but her friend Florence and
Miss Christine knew how sincerely she longed to conquer her faults, and
how severe these struggles were.

The knowledge of them had come to Miss Christine by accident. One day
Marion had said something unusually sharp and cutting to one of her
companions, but had appeared perfectly unconscious of having done
anything unkind, and had gone to her own room humming a tune, with the
most perfect nonchalance.

Miss Christine shortly after followed her, wishing to talk with her, and
show her the folly and wickedness of persisting in such conduct. She had
found her door closed, and, knocking softly and receiving no answer, she
gently opened it, when what was her astonishment to find Marion
stretched upon the floor, weeping violently. She went to her, and,
kneeling down beside her, called her by name. Marion, thus surprised,
could not conceal her grief, or summon her cold, indifferent manner,
and, leaning her head on Miss Christine's shoulder, she sobbed out her
sorrow, shame, and repentance.

Never since had Miss Christine in any way alluded to the event, or by
any means tried to force herself into Marion's confidence; but this
glimpse into her heart had showed her what she might otherwise never
have known, that Marion saw and regretted her own faults and failings,
and was resolved to conquer them. From that time a secret bond of
sympathy was established between pupil and scholar, and though no word
was spoken, a mild, reproachful glance from Miss Christine, or her hand
laid gently on Marion's shoulder, had often checked a rising
exclamation, or cutting sarcasm, which, no matter how sharply it might
have struck its victim, would have rebounded with greater and deeper
pain to the very heart of Marion.

At home Marion had little or nothing to call forth the disagreeable
qualities of her disposition. Surrounded by love and admiration on every
side, the darling of her mother, and the pride and glory of her father,
to whom she appeared almost faultless, it was no wonder that she found
it hard to get on smoothly when thrown among a number of girls her own
age, many of whom, jealous of her superior beauty and intelligence,
would have been glad of any opportunity of getting her into trouble.

Then it was that the worst side of her nature showed itself; and she was
shocked when she discovered how many faults she had which she had never
thought of before.

Her sharp, sarcastic speeches gave her father infinite amusement when
she was at home; but there her remarks rarely wounded any one; but at
school she made her words tell, and she knew that her tongue was her
greatest enemy.

But towards the younger girls Marion was always kind and good-natured.
No one ever told such delightful stories, or made such pretty
paper-dolls, or drew them such lovely pictures as Marion Berkley, and it
was always a mystery to them why the "big girls" did not all love her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Downstairs poor Florence had been having a hard time. When she first
made her appearance in the library there had been a general rush towards
her, and she was greeted with a perfect volley of questions, which it
needed her utmost ingenuity to parry.

She knew Julia Thayer had a right to know all, for she had been
personally concerned in the matter, besides being, next to Flo, Marion's
dearest friend; but she saw that she could not tell her without further
exciting the curiosity of the other girls, and she was forced to take
her book, and appear to be deeply interested in her studies. But,
although her lips monotonously whispered page after page of history, she
knew no more about her lesson than if she had been reading Hindoostanee.

What was her astonishment when she heard close beside her Marion's
voice, asking, in a perfectly natural tone, "Did Miss Christine say six
pages of English History, or seven?"

Florence gave a quick glance at Marion's face, and saw that, although
she was a little pale, she showed no signs of the storm that had so
lately disturbed her. Neither did she throughout the evening appear
other than bright and cheerful, effectually silencing by her own
apparent ease any surmises or questions in which her companions might
have indulged, and they all supposed that she had received a severe
reprimand, and that there the matter would end.

But all agreed with Sarah Brown, who exclaimed, "How Miss Stiefbach had
ever swallowed that pill so easily was a perfect mystery!"




CHAPTER V.

THE APOLOGY.


"Well, Flo, I've hit it!" exclaimed Marion to Florence, as they were
sitting together in their room Thursday afternoon.

"What do you mean?--hit what?"

"Why, I mean I've hit upon a plan; no, not exactly a plan;--I have
decided what my apology shall be."

"Oh!" said Florence, "do you know just what you are going to say?"

"No, not precisely; that is, I have not yet settled upon any exact form
of words, but I have got my ideas together, and I really think it will
be something quite out of the common line."

Florence looked up inquisitively, for Marion's face or voice by no means
expressed the repugnance which she had heretofore shown whenever she had
spoken of the coming apology. In fact she looked rather triumphant, and
a little, amused smile played about the corners of her mouth, as she
bent over her work.

"Now, Mab," exclaimed Florence, "I know you are up to something! Do tell
me what it is that evidently amuses you so much?"

"Oh, nothing particular," replied Marion; but in a tone which said
plainly enough that there was something very particular indeed.

"Now, Mab, you needn't tell me!"

"That is exactly what I don't mean to do," provokingly replied Marion.

"Oh, don't be disagreeable! You know I am positively dying with
curiosity; so out with it!" and Florence tossed her own work on to the
bed, and, catching hold of Marion's canvas, threw it behind her, as she
established herself on her friend's lap.

"Well, I'm sorry, my dear; but if your life depends on my telling you
anything particular to-day, I am afraid you will come to an early
grave."

Florence laid her hands on Marion's shoulders, and looked steadily into
her eyes. Marion met the look with a confident, amused smile, and
exclaimed, "Well, Flo, you look as sober as a judge. I really believe
you think I meditate murder; but I assure you Miss Stiefbach's life is
in no danger from my hands."

"I'll tell you just what I do think, Marion. I believe you are going to
refuse to apologize, and if you do, you will be worse off than you've
been yet;" and Florence really looked as serious as if she were trying a
case in court.

"No, Flo, you needn't trouble yourself on that score. I mean to
apologize before the whole school, and M. Béranger to boot,--just as old
Stiffy ordered."

"Well, I am glad of it! Not glad that it _must_ be done, you know; but I
was afraid you would try to get rid of it in some way; and I know that
would make matters worse."

"No, I don't mean to get rid of it; I shall do it in the most approved
style. Come, get up, miss; you're awfully heavy!"

Florence jumped up, considerably relieved, but still a little suspicious
of her friend's intentions. At that moment Julia Thayer came into the
room.

"O girls! you here?" she exclaimed. "I've been hunting for you
everywhere."

"Well, I don't think you hunted much; we've been here ever since lessons
were done," replied Marion.

"Take a seat, Miss Thayer, and make yourself at home," said Florence.

"Thank you, I was only waiting to be asked. Now, Marion, do tell me;
have you decided what you are going to say to-morrow?"

"It is no use asking her; you can't get anything out of her. I've just
tried my best."

"What! don't you mean to tell us, beforehand?"

"No."

"Not a word? not a syllable? Well, I do declare! I tell you what it is,
Flo, she means to astonish us all by some wonderful production."

"I suppose most of the girls _will_ be astonished, for I don't believe
they know there is to be any apology at all."

"No, I don't think they suspect it," said Julia. "So much for knowing
how to hold one's tongue."

"Well, Julia, I guess this is the first time you could be accused of
that," laughingly replied Flo.

"That is a libel! Who held their tongue about Aunt Bettie's doughnuts, I
should like to know?"

"Another rare instance," mischievously put in Marion; "put it down,
Julia, you'll never have another chance."

"But, girls, what do you mean?" cried Julia, in a deprecating tone. "Do
you think I run and tell everything I know?"

"No, dear, not a bit of it," replied Flo; "you are not quite so reserved
as Marion, but I never heard any one accuse you of telling what you
ought to keep to yourself, or, as the boys say, of 'peaching.'"

"There, Julia, don't look so forlorn, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed
Marion. "You are so delightfully easy to tease; but I confess it was a
very poor reward for your silence of the past two days, which (she
added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes) I know must have almost
killed you."

Julia and Florence both laughed outright at this rather equivocal
consolation, and at that moment the supper-bell rang.

Friday morning every girl was in her seat precisely as the clock struck
nine; for it was French day, and consequently only the second appearance
of M. Béranger, and the novelty of having him there at all had by no
means worn off.

He entered the room, shortly after, and, having politely wished Miss
Stiefbach and her sister good-morning, was about to pass into the
anteroom, when Miss Stiefbach detained him.

"Excuse me, M. Béranger, but I must trouble you to remain here a few
moments."

M. Béranger bowed with his usual grace, and Miss Stiefbach continued:--

"I regret to say (she did not look as if she regretted it at all) that a
circumstance of a most painful nature has lately taken place in this
school. One of my young ladies has done that which makes me deem it
necessary to exact a public apology from her. As you were indirectly
concerned in the matter, I think it proper that the apology should be
made before you. Miss--"

"But, madame," hastily interrupted the astonished Frenchman, "I cannot
imagine; there must be a meestake--I am a perfect stranger; if you will
have the goodness to excuse me, I shall be one tousand times obliged;"
and the poor man looked as if he himself was the culprit.

"It is impossible, monsieur," decidedly replied Miss Stiefbach; "one
particular clause of her punishment was, that it should be made in your
presence. Miss Berkley, you will please come forward."

During the above conversation a most profound silence had reigned
throughout the room; the girls, with the exception of the initiated
three, had looked from one to another, and then at the group on the
platform, with faces expressive of the most intense astonishment,
proving how wholly unsuspicious they had been; but as Marion's name was
pronounced a light broke in upon every one, and all eyes were turned
upon her as she left her seat.

Miss Stiefbach stood with her hands folded over each other in her usual
stately attitude. M. Béranger looked infinitely annoyed and distressed,
and twirled his watch-chain in a very nervous manner. Miss Christine had
retired to the extreme end of the platform, and was trying to appear
interested in a book; but her face had a sad, pained look, which showed
how fully her sympathies were with her pupil.

Florence Stevenson buried her face in her hands; she could not bear to
witness her friend's disgrace. Marion advanced quietly up between the
rows of desks, and as she stepped upon the platform turned so as to face
the school.

She never looked lovelier in her life; a bright color burned in her
cheeks, and her eyes, always wonderfully beautiful, glowed with a
strange light; but the expression of her face would have baffled the
most scrutinizing observer. Calm, quiet, perfectly self-possessed, but
without a particle of self-assurance, she stood, the centre of general
observation.

Presently she spoke in a full, clear voice: "Miss Stiefbach, as M.
Béranger evidently does not know how he is concerned in this matter,
perhaps I had better explain the circumstances to him."

Miss Stiefbach bowed her consent, and Marion, turning towards the
bewildered Frenchman, thus addressed him:--

"M. Béranger, last Wednesday morning, as I, with two of my companions,
was in my room, which is in the front of the house, my attention was
attracted towards a gentleman who was coming down the street, and I
immediately called my two friends to the window that they might get a
good view of him. Our interest was of course doubly increased when we
saw the gentleman enter this garden. His whole appearance was so
decidedly elegant (here M. Béranger, who began to see that he was the
subject of her remarks, colored up to the roots of his hair) that we
could not help giving our opinions of him, and _I_ applied to him the
word 'swell,' which in itself I acknowledge to be very inelegant; but my
only excuse for using it is, that in this case it was so very
expressive."

M. Béranger, despite his embarassment, could hardly conceal a smile,
while a suppressed murmur of amusement ran round the room. Miss
Stiefbach looked hard at Marion, but her face was composed, and her
manner quietly polite; she was apparently perfectly unconscious of
having said anything to cause this diversion.

"While we were talking of him, Miss Stiefbach entered the room, and must
have, unintentionally of course, overheard our comments, for the first
intimation we had of her presence was this remark, which she made
standing directly behind us: 'Young ladies, allow me to see; perhaps I
can inform you.' And now occurred the remark which it was so exceedingly
improper in me to make, and which justly gave so much offence to Miss
Stiefbach." (Here Marion turned towards her teacher, who, as if to
encourage her to proceed, bowed quite graciously.) "I was standing on
the seat in the window, and consequently had the best view of the
gentleman. In the excitement of the moment, regardless of the difference
in our ages, and only remembering that we were impelled by one common
object, I asked her to _jump_ on to the seat beside me. Miss Stiefbach,
for that rudeness I most sincerely ask your pardon. It was wrong, very
wrong of me; I should have stepped aside, thus giving you an excellent
opportunity of gratifying your desire to look at what is rarely seen
here,--a handsome man."

The perfect absurdity of Miss Stiefbach's jumping up in a window with a
party of wild school-girls, for the sake of looking at a handsome man,
or indeed for her to look at a man at any time with any degree of
interest, could only be appreciated by those who were daily witnesses of
her prim, stately ways. It certainly was too much for the gravity of the
inhabitants of that school-room.

[Illustration: MARION APOLOGIZES.]

M. Béranger bit his lip fiercely under his mustache; Miss Christine
became suddenly very much interested in something out in the back yard;
and the school-girls were obliged to resort to open books and
desk-covers to conceal their amusement.

Marion alone remained cool and collected, looking at Miss Stiefbach as
if to ask if she had said enough.

Miss Stiefbach's face was scarlet, and she shut her teeth tightly
together, striving for her usual composure. The sudden turn of Marion's
apology, which placed her in such a ridiculous light, had completely
disconcerted her, and she knew not what to do or say.

If Marion's eyes had twinkled with mischief; if there had been the
slightest tinge of sarcasm in her tone, or of triumph in her manner,
Miss Stiefbach would have thought she intended a fresh insult; but
throughout the whole her bearing had been unusually quiet, ladylike, and
polite. There was no tangible point for her teacher to fasten on, and,
commanding herself sufficiently to speak, Miss Stiefbach merely said,
"It is enough; you may go to your seat."

Even then, if Marion's self-possession had given way, she would have
been called back and severely reprimanded. But it did not; she passed
all her school-mates, whose faces were turned towards her brimming with
laughter and a keen appreciation of the affair, with a sort of
preoccupied air, and, taking her books from her desk, followed M.
Béranger into the anteroom.

At recess the girls with one impulse flocked round her, exclaiming, "Oh!
it was too good; just the richest scene I ever saw."

"What do you mean?" coolly replied Marion.

"Why!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, an unencouraged admirer of Marion's, "the
way you turned the tables on Miss Stiefbach."

"Indeed, Sarah, you are very much mistaken; I simply apologized to her
for a great piece of rudeness."

And Marion turned away and ran upstairs to her own room, where Florence
and Julia were already giving vent to their long pent-up feelings in
only half-suppressed bursts of laughter.

As Marion made her appearance it was the signal for another shout; but
she only replied by a quiet smile, which caused Julia to ejaculate in
her most earnest manner, "I declare, Marion, you don't look a bit
elated! If I had done such a bright thing as you have, I should be
beaming with satisfaction."

"Well, Julia, I don't think I _have_ done anything so very smart. To be
sure I have had my revenge, and the only satisfaction I've got out of it
is to feel thoroughly and heartily ashamed of myself."

"Marion Berkley, you certainly _are_ the queerest girl I ever did see,"
exclaimed Julia.

But Florence, who knew her friend best, said nothing, for she
understood her feelings, and admired her the more for them.

Marion had been determined to make her apology such as would reflect
more absurdity on her teacher than on herself, and in that way to have
her revenge for what she rightly considered her very unjust punishment.
She had succeeded; but now that her momentary triumph was over, she
sincerely wished that it had never occurred.

The next day she went to Miss Christine, and told her just how she felt
about it, and that, if she advised her to do so, she would go to Miss
Stiefbach and ask her forgiveness. But Miss Christine told her, that,
although she heartily disapproved of her conduct, she thought nothing
more had better be said about it, for Miss Stiefbach had only been half
inclined to believe that Marion could _intend_ a fresh impertinence.

And so there the matter ended; but Marion could never fully satisfy her
own conscience on the subject.

She wrote a long letter to her mother, telling her the whole thing from
beginning to end; and received one in reply, gently, but firmly,
rebuking her for her conduct.

But the next day came four pages from her father, full of his amusement
and enjoyment of the whole matter, and highly complimenting her on what
he called "her brilliant coup d'état."

No wonder Marion's better nature was sometimes crushed, when the inward
fires which she longed to extinguish were kindled by a father's hand.




CHAPTER VI.

THE NEW SCHOLAR


"O girls, the new scholar has come!" shouted little Fannie Thayer, as
she bounced into the library one afternoon, where some of the older
girls were studying.

"Do hush, Fannie!" exclaimed her sister Julia; "you do make such an
awful noise! Of course you've left the door open, and it's cold enough
to freeze one. Run away, child."

"But, Julia," remonstrated Fannie, as her sister went on reading without
taking any notice of her communication, "you didn't hear what I
said,--the new scholar has come."

"What new scholar?" inquired Florence Stevenson, looking up from her
book. "This is the first I have heard of any."

"Why, don't you know?" answered little Fannie, glad to have a listener.
"Her name is--is--Well, I can't remember what it is,--something odd; but
she comes from ever so far off, and she's real pretty, kind of
sad-looking, you know."

"What in the world is the child talking about?" broke in Marion. "Who
ever heard of Miss Stiefbach's taking a scholar after the term had
begun?"

"I remember hearing something about it, now," said Julia. "The girl was
to have come at the beginning of the quarter; but she has been sick, or
something or other happened to prevent. I believe she comes from St.
Louis."

"I wonder who she'll room with; she can't come in with us, that's
certain," said Marion, with a very decided air.

"Why, of course she won't," replied Florence; "we never have but two
girls in a room. Oh! I know, she will go in with little Rose May; see if
she doesn't!"

"Well, I tell you, I am sorry she's come!" ejaculated Marion. "I hate
new scholars; they always put on airs, and consider themselves sort of
privileged characters. I for one shall not take much notice of her."

"Why, Marion," exclaimed Grace Minton, "I should think you would be
ashamed to talk so! She may be a very nice girl indeed. You don't know
anything about her."

"I don't care if she is a nice girl. She ought to have come before. It
will just upset all our plans; the classes are all arranged, and
everything is going on nicely. There are just enough of us, and I say it
is a perfect bother!"

"I really don't see why you need trouble yourself so much," broke in
Georgie Graham, who was always jealous of Marion, and never lost an
opportunity of differing with her, though in a quiet way that was
terribly aggravating. "I don't believe you will be called upon to make
any arrangements, and I don't see how one, more or less, can make much
difference any way."

The entrance of Miss Christine prevented Marion's reply, and she
immediately took up her book and became apparently absorbed in her
studies.

"O Miss Christine," they all exclaimed at once, "do tell us about the
new scholar." "Is she pretty?" "Will she be kind to us little girls?"
"How old is she?" and many other questions of a like nature, all asked
in nearly the same breath.

"If you will be quiet, and not all speak at once, I will try and tell
you all you want to know. The name of the new scholar is Rachel Drayton.
She is about sixteen, and I think she is very pretty, although I do not
know as you will agree with me. She seems to have a very lovely
disposition, and I should think that after a while she might be very
lively, and a pleasant companion for you all; but at present she is very
delicate, as she has just recovered from a very severe illness brought
on by her great grief at the death of her father. They were all the
world to each other, and she was perfectly devoted to him. She cannot
yet reconcile herself to her loss. He has been dead about eight weeks.
Her mother died when she was a baby, and the nearest relation she has is
her father's brother, who is now in Europe. Poor child! she is all alone
in the world; my heart aches for her."

Miss Christine's usually cheery voice was very low and sad, and the tear
that glistened in her eye proved that her expressions of sympathy were
perfectly sincere; if, indeed, any one could have doubted that kind,
loving face. As she ceased speaking, there was a perfect silence
throughout the room, and those who had felt somewhat inclined to side
with Marion felt very much conscience-stricken.

Marion, however, continued studying, not showing the slightest signs of
having had her sympathies aroused.

Miss Christine continued: "I hope, girls, you will be particularly kind
to Miss Drayton. She must naturally feel lonely, and perhaps diffident,
among so many strangers, and I want you all to do everything in your
power to make it pleasant for her. You in particular, Marion, having
been here longer than any of the others, will be able to make her feel
quite at home."

"Indeed, Miss Christine, you must excuse me. You know taking up new
friends at a moment's notice, and becoming desperately intimate with
them, is not my forte."

"Marion," replied Miss Christine, in a quiet, but reproving tone, "I do
not ask you to become desperately intimate with her, as you call it, or
anything of the kind. I merely wish you to show her that courtesy which
is certainly due from one school-girl to another."

Marion made no reply, and Miss Christine sat down and commenced talking
to the girls in her usual pleasant manner. It was her evident interest
in everything which concerned them, that made her so beloved by her
pupils.

They all knew that they could find in her a patient listener, and a
willing helper, whenever they chose to seek her advice; whether it was
about an important, or a very trifling matter.

There was some little bustle and confusion as the girls laid aside their
books, and clustered round Miss Christine with their fancy-work, or
leaned back in their chairs, glad to have nothing in particular to do.

"Miss Christine!" exclaimed little Rose May, "I do wish you would show
me how to 'bind off.' I keep putting my thread over and over, and,
instead of taking off stitches, it makes more every time. I think these
sleeves are a perfect nuisance. I wish I hadn't begun 'em!"

"Why, you poor child," laughingly replied her teacher, "what are you
doing? You might knit forever and your sleeves would not be 'bound off,'
if you do nothing but put your worsted over. Who told you to do that?"

"Julia Thayer did; she said knit two and then put over, and knit two and
then put over, all the time, and it would come all right."

"Now, Rose, I didn't!" exclaimed Julia. "I said put your stitch over,
you silly child! I should think you might have known that putting your
worsted over would widen it."

"I know you _didn't_ say put your stitch over," retorted Rose; "you just
said put over, and how was I going to know by that? I think you're real
mean; you never take any pains with us little ones; I don't--"

"Hush, hush, Rose! You must not speak so," said Miss Christine, laying
her hands on the child's lips; then, turning to Julia, she said, "If you
had taken more pains with Rose, and tried to explain to her how she
ought to have done her work, it would have been much better for both of
you."

"Well, Miss Christine, she came just as I was thinking up for my
composition, and I didn't want to be bothered by any one. As it was, she
put all my ideas out of my head."

Miss Christine's only reply was a shake of the head and an incredulous
smile, which made Julia wish she had shown a little more patience with
the child.

"There, Rose," said Miss Christine, as the little girl put the finishing
touch to her sleeves, "next time you will not have to ask any one to
show you how to 'bind off.' Your sleeves are very pretty, and I know
your mother will be glad her daughter took so much pains to please her."

Rose glanced up at her teacher with a bright smile, and went skipping
off, ready for fun and frolic, now that those troublesome sleeves were
finished. But she had hardly reached the hall when she came running
back, saying, in a most mysterious sort of stage-whisper, "She's coming!
she's coming downstairs with Miss Stiefbach! Rebecca what's-her-name;
you know!"

The girls looked up as Miss Stiefbach entered the room, and, although
they were too well-bred to actually stare at her companion, it must be
confessed that their faces betrayed considerable interest.

Rachel Drayton, the "new scholar," was between sixteen and seventeen;
tall and very slight; her eyes were very dark; her face intensely pale,
but one saw at once it was the pallor of recent illness, or acute mental
suffering, not of continued ill-health.

She was dressed in the deepest mourning, in a style somewhat older than
that generally worn by girls of her age. Her jet-black hair, which grew
very low on her forehead, was brushed loosely back, and gathered into a
rough knot behind, as if the owner was too indifferent to her personal
appearance to try to arrange it carefully.

As she stood now, fully conscious of the glances that were
surreptitiously cast upon her, she appeared frightened and bewildered.
Her eyes were cast down, but if any one had looked under their long
lashes, they would have seen them dimmed with tears.

Accustomed all her life to the society of older persons, no one who has
not experienced the same feeling can imagine how great an ordeal it was
for her to enter that room full of girls of her own age. To notice the
sudden hush that fell upon all as she came in; to feel that each one was
mentally making comments upon her, was almost more than she could bear.
If they had been persons many years older than herself, she would have
gone in perfectly at her ease; chatted first with this one, then with
that, and would have made herself at home immediately.

Unfortunately the only young persons in whose society she had been
thrown were some young ladies she had met while travelling through the
West with her father. They had been coarse, foolish creatures, making
flippant remarks upon all whom they saw, in a rude, unladylike manner,
and from whom she had shrunk with an irresistible feeling of repugnance.
No wonder her heart had sunk within her when she thought that perhaps
her future companions might be of the same stamp.

Miss Christine noticed her embarrassment at once, and kindly went
forward to meet her, saying as she did so, "Well, my dear, I am glad to
see you down here; I am not going to introduce you to your companions
now, you will get acquainted with them all in time; first I want you to
come into the school-room with me and see how you like it."

And she took her hand and led her through the open door into the
school-room beyond; talking pleasantly all the time, calling her
attention to the view from the windows, the arrangement of the desks,
and various other things, until at last she saw her face light up with
something like interest, and the timid, frightened look almost entirely
disappear; then she took her back into the library.

As they went in, Florence Stevenson, who stood near the fireplace, made
room for them, remarking as she did so, "It is very chilly; you must be
cold; come here and warm yourself. How do you like our school-room?"

"Very much; that is, I think I shall. It seems very pleasant."

"Yes, it is pleasant. It's so much nicer for being papered with that
pretty paper than if it had had dark, horrid walls like some I've seen.
What sort of a school did you use to go to?"

"I never went to school before; I always studied at home;" and poor
Rachel's voice trembled as she thought of the one who had always
directed her studies; but Florence went bravely on, determined to do her
part towards making the new scholar feel at home.

"Well, I'm afraid you will find it hard to get used to us, if you have
never been thrown with girls before. I don't believe but what you
thought we were almost savages; now honestly, didn't you feel afraid to
meet us?"

"It was hard," replied Rachel; but as she glanced up at the bright,
animated face before her, she thought that if all her future companions
were like this one she should have no great fears for the future.

Most of the scholars had left the room; the few who remained were
chatting together apparently unconscious of the stranger's presence, and
as Rachel stood before the fire, with her back to the rest of the room,
and Florence beside her talking animatedly, she was surprised to find
herself becoming interested and at ease, and before Miss Christine left
them the two girls were comparing notes on their studies, and gave
promise of soon becoming very good friends.

When Marion left the library, she went directly to her room, locked the
door, and threw herself on the seat in the window in a tumult of
emotion. Paramount over all other feelings stood shame. She could not
excuse herself for her strange behavior, and she felt unhappy; almost
miserable. "Why did I speak so?" she asked herself. "Why should I feel
such an unaccountable prejudice against a person I never even heard of
before? I thought I had conquered all these old, hateful feelings, and
here they are all coming back again. I don't know what is the matter
with me. It is not jealousy; for how can I be jealous of a person I
never saw or heard of before in my life? I don't know what it is, and I
don't much care; there aren't four girls in the school that like me, and
only one _I_ really love, and that's dear old Flo. She's as good as
gold, and if any one should ever come between us I pity her! I'll bet
anything though, that she is downstairs making friends with that girl
this minute."

This thought was not calculated to calm Marion's ruffled feelings, and
she sat brooding by the window in anything but an enviable mood.

She was still in this state of mind when the tea-bell rang, and hastily
smoothing her hair she went downstairs.

It chanced that just as she entered the dining-room Rachel Drayton and
Florence came in by the opposite door. Florence was evidently giving
Rachel an account of some of their school frolics, though in an
undertone, so that Marion could not catch the words, and her companion
was listening, her face beaming with interest. No circumstance could
have occurred which would have been more unfavorable for changing
Marion's wayward mood.

Coming downstairs she had been picturing to herself the unhappiness and
loneliness of the poor orphan, and she had almost made up her mind to go
forward, introduce herself, and try by being kind and agreeable to make
amends for her former injustice; for although she knew Miss Drayton must
be entirely unconscious of it, she could not in her own heart feel at
rest until she had made some atonement.

No one could have presented themselves to a perfect stranger,--a thing
which it is not easy for most persons to do,--with more grace and
loveliness than Marion, if she had been so inclined, for there was at
times a certain fascination about her voice and manner that few could
resist.

She had expected to see a pale, sickly, utterly miserable-looking girl,
towards whom she felt it would be impossible to steel her heart; and she
saw one, who, although she was certainly pale enough, seemed to be
anything but miserable, and above all was evidently fast becoming on
intimate terms with her own dear friend Florence.

That was enough; resolutely crushing down all kindly feelings that were
struggling for utterance, she took her seat at the table as if
unconscious of the stranger's existence. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head
of one very long table, and Miss Christine at another, having most of
the little girls at her end; while Marion sat directly opposite with
Florence on her right. Without changing this long-established order of
things, Miss Christine could not make room for Rachel by the side of
Florence as she would have liked, and the only place for her seemed to
be on Marion's left, as there were not so many girls on that side of the
table. Hoping that such close proximity would force Marion to unbend the
reserved manner which she saw she was fast assuming, Miss Christine,
before taking her own seat, went to that end of the table and introduced
Marion to Rachel, laughingly remarking that as they were the oldest
young ladies there, they would have to sustain the dignity of the table.

This jesting command was certainly carried out to the very letter of the
law by Marion.

She was intensely polite throughout the meal, but perfectly frigid in
the dignity of her manner, which so acted upon poor Rachel, that the
bright smiles which Florence had called forth were effectually
dispelled, and throughout the rest of the evening she was the same sad,
frightened girl who had first made her appearance in the library.

When Marion knelt that night to pray, her lips refused to utter her
accustomed prayers. It seemed hypocrisy for her, who had so resolutely
made another unhappy, to ask God's blessings on her head, and she
remained kneeling long after Florence had got into bed, communing with
herself, her only inward cry being, "God forgive me!"

But how could she expect God would forgive her, when day after day she
knowingly committed the same faults?

Sick at heart, she rose from her knees, turned out the gas, and went to
bed, but not to sleep; far into the night she lay awake viewing her past
conduct.

She did not try to excuse herself, or to look at her faults in any other
than their true light; but, repentant and sorrowful though she might be,
she could not as yet sufficiently conquer her pride to ask pardon of
those she had openly wounded, or to contradict an expressed opinion even
after she regretted ever having formed it.

Poor child! she thought she had struggled long and fiercely with
herself; she had yet to learn that the battle was but just begun.




CHAPTER VII.

AUNT BETTIE.


"Oh, dear!" yawned Grace Minton, "how I do hate stormy Saturdays!"

"So do I!" exclaimed Georgie Graham; "they are a perfect nuisance, and
we were going up to Aunt Bettie's this afternoon."

"Who's we?"

"Oh, 'her royal highness' for one, and your humble servant for another;
Sarah Brown, Flo Stevenson, and Rachel Drayton, _of_ course. By the way,
how terribly intimate those two have grown! I don't believe 'her
highness' relishes their being so dreadfully thick."

"What in the world makes you call Marion 'her highness'?" said Grace.

"Oh, because she _is_ so high and mighty; she walks round here sometimes
as if she were queen and we her subjects."

"No such thing, Georgie Graham!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, who came in just
as the last remark was made, and knew very well to whom it alluded; "she
doesn't trouble herself about us at all."

"That's just it; she thinks herself superior to us poor _plebeians_."

"Stuff and nonsense! You know you're jealous of her, and always have
been."

"Oh, no!" replied Georgie, who, no matter how much she might be
provoked, always spoke _to_ any one in a soft purring voice. "Oh, no!
I'm not jealous of her; there is no reason why I should be. But really,
Sarah, I don't see why you need take up the cudgel for her so fiercely;
she always snubs you every chance she gets."

Sarah tossed her head, blushing scarlet; for the remark certainly had a
good deal of truth in it, and was none the less cutting for being made
in a particularly mild tone.

"Well, at any rate," said Grace Minton, for the sake of changing the
subject, "I think Rachel Drayton is lovely."

"Lovely!" exclaimed Georgie, "she's a perfect stick! I don't see what
there is lovely about her, and for my part I wish she had never come
here."

"Seems to me the tune has changed," broke in Sarah. "I thought you were
one of the ones who were so down on Marion Berkley for saying the same
thing."

"Oh, that was before I had seen her," replied Georgie, not at all
disconcerted.

"In other words, you said it just so as to have an opportunity to differ
with Marion," retorted Sarah. "I really believe you hate her!"

"Sarah, how can you get so excited? it is so very unbecoming, you know,"
purred Georgie. Sarah flounced out of the room too indignant for speech,
and just as she was going through the hall met Marion, who was in an
unusually pleasant mood.

"See, Sarah, it is clearing off; we shall have a chance for our walk, I
guess, after all."

"Do you think so? It will be awful sloppy though, won't it?"

"No, I don't believe it will; besides who cares for that? We are not
made of sugar or salt."

"How many are going?" asked Sarah.

"I don't know exactly; let me see." And Marion counted off on her
fingers. "You for one, and I for another; that's two. Miss Drayton and
Florence are four. Grace Minton, if she wants to go, five; and Georgie
Graham six."

At the mention of the last name, Sarah gave her head a toss, which was
so very expressive that Marion could not help laughing, and exclaimed,
"Oh, yes! you know 'her royal highness' must allow some of the
_plebeians_ among her subjects to follow in her train."

Sarah laughed softly. "Did you hear?" she whispered.

Marion nodded, and just at that moment Georgie came out of the room
where she had been sitting. "What was that you said, Marion, about 'her
highness'?" she asked. "Did you think that the title applied to
yourself?"

"I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, Georgie, if I hadn't
overheard your remarks, and of course I could not but feel gratified at
the honorable distinction."

"How do you know it was meant for an honorable distinction?"

"How can I doubt it, Georgie, when it was bestowed upon me by such an
amiable young lady as yourself? Now if it had been Sarah, I might have
thought _she_ said it out of spite; but of course when Georgie Graham
said it, I knew it was intended as a tribute to my superiority;" and
Marion made a provokingly graceful courtesy.

"There is nothing like having a good opinion of one's self," replied
Georgie.

"But you see you are mistaken there, Georgie; it was you who seemed to
have such a high opinion of me. You know I didn't claim the
greatness,--it was 'thrust upon me;'" and Marion, satisfied with that
shaft, turned on her heel, and opening the front door went out on to
the piazza, followed by Sarah, who had been a silent but appreciative
witness of the scene.

Georgie Graham shut her teeth, muttering in anything but her usual soft
tones, and with an expression in her eyes which was anything but
pleasant to see, "Oh, how I hate you! But I'll be even with you yet!"

The shower which had so disconcerted the whole school was evidently
clearing off, and there was every prospect that the proposed plan of
walking to Aunt Bettie's directly after dinner might be carried into
execution.

Aunt Bettie, as all the school-girls called her, was a farmer's wife,
who supplied the school with eggs, butter, and cheese, and during the
summer with fresh vegetables and berries.

She lived about two or three miles from the school, on the same road,
and the girls often went to see her. She was fond of them all, although
she had her favorites, among whom was Marion; and she always kept a good
supply of doughnuts, for which she was quite famous, on hand for them
whenever they might come.

The sun kept his promise, and before dinner-time the girls were all out
on the piazza, getting up an appetite they said, although that was not
often wanting with any of them.

The party for Aunt Bettie's numbered eight,--Rose May and Fannie Thayer
having begged Marion to ask permission for them to go,--and they all set
out for their walk in high spirits. Although Marion treated Rachel with
a certain degree of politeness, she never spoke to her unless it was
absolutely necessary, and then always addressed her as Miss Drayton,
although every other girl in school had, by this time, become accustomed
to familiarly call her Rachel. Florence had done everything in her power
to draw Marion into their conversation at table, but seeing that she was
determined not to change her manner, she thought it best to take no
more notice of it, as by doing so it only made it the more apparent to
Rachel that Marion had no intention of becoming better acquainted with
her.

Rachel had been there but a short time, and already Marion began to feel
that Florence was turning from her for a new friend. This was not really
the case, and Florence, who knew Marion's feelings, was secretly very
much troubled.

She loved Marion as deeply and truly as ever; but she could not turn
away from that motherless girl, between whom and herself an instinctive
sympathy seem to have been established, arising from the loss which they
had each felt, and which naturally drew them closer to each other.
Florence had never known her mother, but the loss was none the less
great to her; she felt that there was a place in the heart that none but
a mother's love could ever have filled, and no matter how bright and
happy she might feel, there was at times a sense of utter loneliness
about her which she found hard to dispel.

Rachel seemed to turn to her as her only friend among that crowd of
strangers, and she could not refuse to give her her friendship in
return, even at the risk of seeing Marion for a time estranged from her;
for she trusted to Marion's better nature, hoping that in the future she
would not be misjudged, and that all might be made pleasant and happy
again.

And so to-day for the first time since they had been to school together,
Florence and Marion were taking their Saturday afternoon walk with
separate companions. Marion had Rose May by the hand, while she told
Sarah Brown to take care of little Fannie. Florence and Rachel were
directly in front of her, and she knew that they would have been happy
to have had her join in their conversation. In fact, they spoke so that
she could hear every word they said; but she occupied herself by
telling Rose a story of such remarkable length and interest as to
perfectly enchant the child, who exclaimed as they reached the
farm-house, "O Marion, you do tell the best stories; I really think you
_ought_ to write a book!" Marion laughed, but had no chance to answer,
for at that moment the door opened and Aunt Bettie appeared upon the
threshold.

"Wall, gals, I be glad to see ye; this is a sight good for old eyes!"

"Did you expect us, auntie?" asked Marion.

"Spect yer, child! why, I been a-lookin' for yer these three Saturdays
past! What you been a-doin' that's kept yer so long?"

"Well, nothing in particular; but you see the term has only just begun,
and we've hardly got settled."

"Oh, yes, honey, I know; I haint laid it up agin yer. But who's this new
one?--yer haint introduced me."

As Marion showed no inclination to perform the ceremony Florence
presented Rachel, remarking that she was a new scholar from the West.
But Aunt Bettie's keen eyes took in at a glance the deep mourning
apparel, and her kind heart at once divined its cause; and she exclaimed
with great heartiness as she took Rachel's hands in her own rough palms,
"Wall, child, you couldn't 'a come to a better place than Miss
Stiffback's, and you couldn't 'a got in with a better lot o' girls; take
em as they come, they're about as good a set as I knows on!"

"O Aunt Bettie!" exclaimed Florence; "flattering, as I live! I wouldn't
have believed it of you."

"Not a bit of it, child; just plain speakin', a thing that never hurt
anybody yet, according to my notion. But come in, gals; come in, you
must be tired after your long walk, and the tin box is most a-bustin'
its sides, I crammed it so full."

The girls laughed, for they all knew what the tin box contained, and
were only too ready to be called upon to empty it.

They all seated themselves in the large, old-fashioned kitchen, with its
low ceiling and tremendous open fireplace, surmounted by a narrow shelf,
on which was displayed a huge Bible, and a china shepherdess in a green
skirt and pink bodice, smiling tenderly over two glass lamps and a
Britannia teapot, at a china shepherd in a yellow jacket and sky-blue
smalls; being, I suppose, exact representations of the sheep-tenders of
that part of the country.

Aunt Bettie bustled in and out of the huge pantry, bringing out a large
tin box filled to the top with delicious brown, spicy doughnuts, and a
large earthen pitcher of new milk.

"There, gals," as she put a tray of tumblers on the table, "jest help
yerselves, and the more yer eat, why the better I shall be suited."

"Suppose we should go through the box and not leave any for Jabe; what
should you say to that?" asked Marion.

"Never you mind Jabe; trust him for getting his fill. Eat all yer want,
and then stuff the rest in yer pockets."

"Oh, that wouldn't do at all!" exclaimed Marion; "you don't know what a
fuss we had about those Julia Thayer carried home last year! Miss
Stiefbach didn't like it at all; she said it was bad enough bringing
boxes from home, but going round the neighborhood picking up cake was
disgraceful. She never knew exactly who took them to school, for Julia
kept mum; but I don't think it would do to try it again."

"Wall, I think that was too bad of Miss Stiffback; she knows nothin'
pleases me so much as to have you come here and eat my doughnuts, and if
you choose to carry some on 'em to school, what harm did it do? She
ought to remember that she was a gal once herself."

"Oh, mercy! auntie, I don't believe she ever was," ejaculated
Marion. "She was born Miss Stiefbach, and I wouldn't be at all
surprised if she wore the same stiff dresses, and had the same
I'm-a-little-better-than-any-body-else look when she was a baby."

"Wall, child, she's a good woman after all. You know there aint any of
us perfect; we all hev our faults; if it aint one thing it's another;
it's pretty much the same the world over."

"You do make the best doughnuts, Aunt Bettie, _I_ ever eat," declared
Fannie Thayer, who was leaning with both elbows on the table, a piece of
a doughnut in one hand, and a whole one in the other as a reserve force.

"Wall, child, I ginerally kalkerlate I ken match any one going on
doughnuts; but 't seemed to me these weren't 's good as common. I had
something on my mind that worrited me when I was mixin' 'em, and I
'spose I wasn't quite as keerful as usual."

"If _you_ don't call these good, _I_ do!" ejaculated Miss Fannie. "Why,
I just wish you could have seen some Julia made last summer. She took a
cooking-fit, and tried most everything; mother said she wasted more eggs
and butter than she was worth, and her _doughnuts_!--Ugh! heavy, greasy
things!"

"She must 'a let 'em soak fat!" exclaimed Aunt Bettie, who was always
interested in the cookery question; "that's the great trouble with
doughnuts; some folks think everything's in the mixin', but I say more'n
half depends on the fryin'. You must hev yer fat hot, and stand over 'em
all the time. I allers watch mine pretty close and turn 'em offen with a
fork, and then I hev a cullender ready to put 'em right in so't the fat
ken dreen off. I find it pays t' be pertickeler;" and Aunt Bettie
smoothed her apron, and leaned back in her chair with the air of one who
had said something of benefit to mankind in general.

"But where is Julia?" she asked after a short pause. "Why didn't she
come?"

"Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Fannie; "she sent her love to you, and told me
to tell you not to let us eat up all your doughnuts this time, because
she'll be up before long and want some. She had a sore throat, and Miss
Stiefbach thought she had better not go out."

"I'm sorry for that," replied Aunt Bettie; "I hope she aint a-goin' to
be sick."

"Oh, no, it aint very bad. Julia thinks it's nothing but cankers; she
often has them."

"Wall, it's always best to be on the safe side, any way," said Aunt
Bettie; "you tell her she needn't be afraid about the doughnuts; I'll
have a fresh batch ready agin the time she comes."

The business of eating and drinking so occupied the girls' attention,
that they did not enter into conversation as readily as usual; and after
the first flush of excitement at meeting her young friends and
dispensing her hospitality was over, Aunt Bettie, too, subsided into a
quiet, subdued manner, which was quite foreign to her usual brisk
talkativeness.

She sat in her high-backed rocking-chair, looking at the girls over her
silver-bowed spectacles, with a sad, musing expression, as if the sight
of them called up some unhappy thought.

This unusual restraint on the part of their hostess communicated itself
in a certain degree to her visitors, though they did not themselves
remark the cause of their silence, and their visit was made shorter than
usual.

It was Marion who first made the move to go; and although Aunt Bettie
pressed them to remain she did not urge it with her accustomed
eagerness.

They had got just beyond the bend of the road which hid the old
farm-house from view, when Marion exclaimed, "You run on, Rose, with the
others; I believe I left my gloves on the table; don't wait for me, I'll
catch up with you;" and before Rose could beg to go back with her, she
had turned round and ran off up the road. She ran quickly, but
noiselessly along, and was back to the farm-house in a few moments, and
was surprised to find Aunt Bettie sitting on the door-step with her head
buried in her hands. Going up to her, she found her weeping as if her
heart would break.

"Aunt Bettie!" she said, in her gentlest tones, "Aunt Bettie! It's only
Marion. What is the matter? I thought you seemed worried about
something, and came back to see if I couldn't help you; can't I?"

"Oh, dear!" sobbed the poor woman. "It may be dreadful wicked of me, but
the sight of you young things, all lookin' so bright and happy, did make
me feel awful bad, for I couldn't help thinking o' my own darter
Jemimy."

"Why, what is the matter with her, auntie? Where is she?"

"The Lord knows, dear, I don't. Not a blessed word hev I heerd from her
it's going on eight weeks. I've writ, and Jabe he's writ, but we haint
had a sign of an answer, and I'm afraid she's dead, or perhaps wus;" and
the poor woman rocked herself back and forth, completely overcome by her
grief.

"But, auntie," said Marion, laying her hand gently on the good woman's
shoulder, "don't you see there are forty things that might have happened
to prevent your hearing from her? You know a girl that lives out can't
always find time to write as often as she would like. Besides, she may
have got a new place, and in that case might not have received your
letters."

"I thought o' that, child, and the last letter Jabe writ he directed to
the care of Miss Benson, the woman that keeps the intelligence office;
but that's two weeks an' more ago, and I haven't heerd a word. You see,
Miss Marion, there aint a better-hearted gal livin' than my Jemimy, but
she got kinder lonesome and discontented-like a livin' way off here, and
took it into her head she'd like the city better. She allus was a
high-sperrited gal, and 'twas dull for her here, that's a fact; but I
wish to the Lord I'd held my own and hadn't let her gone; for there's
awful places in them big cities, and my gal's pretty enough to make any
one look at her. I dunno, child, but I can't help feelin' somethin'
dreadful's happened to her."

"O auntie, you must not get discouraged so easily. I thought you were
one of the kind who always looked on the bright side of things," said
Marion in a cheerful tone.

"Wall, dear, I do ginerally; but this has just keeled me right over, and
I don't seem to know where I be. You see I haint got any one in the city
as I ken call upon to help me. I don't know a soul in the place I could
get to hunt her up. Sometimes I think I'll go down there; but where's
the use? I should be like a hen with her head cut off in such a great,
strange place as Boston."

"Well, auntie, I'll try my best to help you. I tell you what I'll do:
you give me Jemima's address, and I'll write to my mother, and get her
to look her up. She has to go to those offices very often after
servants, and like as not she might stumble right on her. Now cheer up,
auntie, for I feel just as if we should find her;" and Marion passed her
hand over Aunt Bettie's wrinkled forehead and gray hair as tenderly as
if she were her own mother.

Aunt Bettie looked at Marion with the tears still glistening in her
eyes, and a sad smile on her face, as she said:--

"Marion Berkley it aint every gal as would take so much trouble for an
old creetur like me, even if she noticed I was sad and worried. You've
comforted a poor, old woman who was most broken-hearted. May the Lord
bless you for it, an' I know he will."

Marion smiled up at the tender, old face that looked down at her, while
her own flushed with pleasure at the words of commendation.

It was a pity that there were no unobserved witnesses of the scene; for
Marion Berkley, cold and haughty, apparently indifferent alike to the
praise or blame of those around her, was a very different person from
this gentle girl. Her whole soul was shining through her eyes; all her
haughtiness, pride, and coldness had fallen from her, and she stood
almost like one transfigured, her face beaming with the light which
makes the plainest face seem almost divine,--that of pure, disinterested
sympathy for the sufferings and troubles of a fellow-being.

For a moment there was silence between the two, while the tears rolled
down both of their cheeks; but Marion dashed hers away, as she exclaimed
in a cheery voice:--

"Come, auntie, it is getting late, and I must be off; so get me the
address, please."

"To be sure, child! How thoughtless I be! I'll get it for yer right
away;" and Aunt Bettie went into the house with something of her usual
briskness, and returning, brought out a scrap of paper, on which was
written in a stiff, cramped, school-boy hand this direction:--

    "MISS JEMIMA DOBBS,
    _In Kare of Mis Benson_,
    Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street,
    Boston."

Marion could hardly repress a smile of amusement at the remarkable
orthography; but remembering that in Aunt Bettie's eyes it was a perfect
monument to the glory of her son Jabe, she made no comments, and folding
it up, tucked it carefully away in her purse. Then, with a bright,
encouraging smile, she said good-by to Aunt Bettie, and hurried off down
the road.

It was much later than she thought, and as the days were rapidly growing
shorter, it was quite dusk, and the girls were entirely out of sight and
hearing.

But her thoughts kept her company on her long walk, and all the way home
she was turning over in her mind the probabilities and improbabilities
of her mother's being able to find the young, unknown country girl in a
large city like Boston.

Miss Christine had begun to feel quite anxious about her by the time she
arrived, and Florence met her in the hall with a hearty caress, to which
she responded with her old warmth.

"Why, you dear, old thing!" exclaimed Florence; "what has kept you so
long? It must have been forlorn walking home at this hour."

"Oh, I did not mind it; I had something to think of," replied Marion, as
she pulled off her muddy rubbers before going upstairs. "I'll tell you
by and by; I must run up and get ready for supper."

That night, after they got to bed, Marion gave Florence a synopsis of
her conversation with Aunt Bettie, and told her of her plan of writing
to her mother for assistance.

"Well," said Florence, "I think it was real good of you to think of it.
What a queer girl you are! I knew we didn't have quite as jolly a time
as usual up there, but I never noticed there was anything the matter
with Aunt Bettie; and if I had I don't believe it would have occurred
to me to go back and comfort her. O Marion!"--and she threw her arm over
her friend's shoulder,--"how much good there is in you! Why won't you
let it all come out?"

"I don't think there was anything particularly good in that. You see
there was no virtue in my being kind to the poor, old thing, because I
could not help it. If there had been any hateful feelings to overcome,
or any wounded pride to interfere, I probably should not have done it."

"I'm not so sure of that, Marion. You do conquer yourself sometimes."

"Not often, dear," Marion replied, with a little, nervous, forced laugh.
"It is too much trouble. Good-night, I must go to sleep."

But it was long before sleep came to Marion. She laid perfectly still,
so as not to disturb Florence, but the small hours found her still
awake. She had been for some time thoroughly dissatisfied with herself,
and the thought that she had been of some comfort to any one was indeed
pleasant to her; but she would not attribute to herself credit that did
not belong to her.

It was just as she had said to Florence; she could not help being kind
to the poor old woman in her trouble; she had obeyed the promptings of
her naturally warm heart. It had been an impulsive action, not one in
which a disagreeable duty had been plainly pointed out for her to
follow; and she determinedly put aside all feeling of self-satisfaction.
She knew that if Rachel Drayton had made a similar appeal to her
kindness and sympathy, her heart would have been resolutely closed
against her, and she would not have spoken a single encouraging word.

This thought thrust itself upon her again and again. She tried to put it
from her, but it was no use; she could not evade it. She told herself
that she was ridiculously conscientious; that this girl had no claims
upon her; and that she had done all that Miss Christine asked of her;
treated Rachel politely and courteously; but she knew that her
politeness had been cold and formal, and her courtesy less kindly than
she would bestow upon a beggar at the door. But she said to herself,
Florence makes up for all my deficiencies. This bitter thought, in
various forms, had rankled in her breast day and night. She had often
said that nothing could ever make her jealous of Florence; their
affection had been too lasting, too much a part of themselves, for
either to suspect the other of inconstancy; and now she was the first to
doubt.

But the last words of Florence, as they talked that night, came back to
her, and she remembered the fond embrace and the earnestness of her
voice as she besought her to act her real self.

Should she doubt that generous heart, that had shown its love for her in
a thousand ways, because, when it was appealed to by a fatherless,
motherless girl, it had responded with all the warmth of its true,
generous nature?

No, she could not do it; she felt that it was only another reason for
loving her more, and tears of shame and sorrow filled her eyes, as,
bending over in the darkness, she pressed a kiss upon the lips of her
sleeping companion.

Her unjust suspicion of her friend vanquished and conquered forever, her
thoughts gradually wandered back to Aunt Bettie, and with her mind full
of plans and projects in her behalf, she at last fell asleep.




CHAPTER VIII.

AT CHURCH.


Sunday morning came bright and clear, but very cold, and many of the
girls made their appearance in the library, shaking and shivering, as if
they had never before experienced a northern winter.

"Gracious me!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "I'm almost frozen. My room is as
cold as a barn! My cheeks are as blue as a razor, and my nose looks like
a great cranberry. Do let me get near the fire, Georgie; you're keeping
the heat off of every one."

Georgie made way for her, quietly remarking, as she did so:--

"Well, Sarah, I must say the cold is not very becoming to your style of
beauty; your nose and hair together ought to heat this room."

"You needn't say anything, Miss Graham; you're not so killing handsome
yourself that you can afford to make fun of others!" hotly retorted
Sarah.

It was a notable fact that these two could never come together without a
passage-at-arms. Grace's quietly hateful remarks always excited Sarah to
a most unmitigated degree, and she could not seem to learn by experience
that the only way to silence her was to take no notice of them; and
their disputes were often great sources of amusement to the other girls.

Georgie, tall and rather distingué-looking, although not pretty, with
her quietly assured manner even when she knew herself beaten, and her
hypocritically soft tones, was almost always more than a match for
Sarah, who never could hide her feelings no matter what they were and
who always retorted as sharply and spitefully as she could. She was a
warm-hearted little thing, as honest and true as she was impulsive, and
Georgie's quiet, deliberate hatefulness was more than she could bear.

If there was one subject on which Sarah was more sensitive than another
it was her hair. It was a rich, reddish-yellow; very thick, long and
curling, and any artist would have looked upon it with admiration; but
it was the bane of Sarah's existence. When she was a little girl it had
been really red, but time had softened its shade, and many a Parisian
belle might have envied Sarah its possession. Sarah could see no beauty
in it, for at home she was often greeted by the name of "carrot-top,"
and "little red hen;" and once when she got into a very excited argument
with her brother, and stood shaking her head at him with the long curls
which she then wore, flying about her shoulders, he had run out of the
room, shouting as he got well out of reach:--

"I say, Sal! how much would you charge to stand on Boston common nights,
and light the city? Your head would save all the expense of gas!"

You may be pretty sure it did not take Georgie Graham long to find out
Sarah's weakness, and so the poor child's bane was still kept before her
even at school, where there were no troublesome brothers.

She resolutely brushed out her long curls, and braided them into soft,
heavy braids, winding them round and round at the back of her head until
it looked like a great golden bee-hive; but she could not keep the front
from rippling into soft, delicate waves; or the short hairs from
twisting themselves into numberless little curls, which all the
crimping-pins and hot slate-pencils in the world could not imitate. This
hair which Georgie Graham so affected to despise was in reality a great
object of her admiration, and she would have gladly exchanged it, with
its usual accompaniments of glowing cheeks and scarlet lips, for her own
sallow skin and scanty, drabbish-brown locks. But I have made a
digression; let us return to our group in the library.

"What are you two quarrelling about this lovely Sunday morning?" asked
Florence Stevenson as she and Marion came into the room together.

"Oh, we were not quarrelling," replied Georgie. "Sarah was only
remarking that her cheeks were as blue as razors and her nose like a
cranberry, and I agreed with her,--that was all."

"Yes," exclaimed Sarah, "and I told you you weren't killing handsome,
and I dare say you agreed with me, though you didn't say so. But there
is one thing certain, if the cold makes frights of both of us, it makes
Marion look like a beauty!" and Sarah's eyes sparkled mischievously.

Georgie only shrugged her shoulders and elevated her eyebrows, as she
replied, "Chacun à son gout."

"But it doesn't happen to be your "gout," does it, Georgie?"
good-naturedly replied Marion, who knew very well that Sarah's
admiration of herself was thus publicly exhibited solely for the sake of
annoying Georgie.

"Come, girls, let's declare peace, or at least a 'cessation of
hostilities;' it's a shame to commence the day with quarrels;" and
Florence knelt down on the rug between the two girls, looking up at them
with a smile that it would have been hard for any one to have resisted.

Directly after this Miss Stiefbach entered, and all were quiet as she
read the morning prayers, and they joined in the responses.

By ten o'clock the girls, with the exception of Julia Thayer, whose
throat was still troubling her, and Grace Minton, who was suffering from
a sick headache, were on their way to church. They did not walk in a
regular procession like so many convicts on their way to prison, but
each chose her own companion, and the walk was enlivened with pleasant
conversation. It so chanced that Marion and Georgie Graham were
together, not by choice of either party, but because they both happened
to come downstairs a little late, and the others had already got into
the street as they came out the front door. Florence Stevenson, Miss
Christine, and Rachel Drayton were all walking together, and Georgie,
observing this, thought it would be an excellent opportunity for making
Marion thoroughly uncomfortable.

"It seems to me," she began, "you and Florence are not quite so fond of
each other as you used to be; or is it that she is not so fond of you?"

"I don't think there is any difference on either side," quietly replied
Marion, determined not to lose her temper, or be led into saying cutting
things of which she would have to repent.

"Oh, if you think so, I suppose it is all right; but I don't believe
there's a girl in the school who hasn't noticed how Florence has left
you to run after Rachel Drayton."

Marion resolutely kept silence, and Georgie, thinking that her shots had
not taken effect, continued: "I don't see what there is about that girl,
I'm sure, to make Flo fancy her so much; she certainly isn't pretty, and
she's awfully lackadaisical."

"I think she is very pretty," replied Marion; "and the reason she seems
lackadaisical is because she is not strong."

"I thought you did not like her," said Georgie, "you certainly have not
troubled yourself much to entertain her."

"I do not see as that is any reason why I should not think her pretty,
or why I should not see that she is quiet, because she is not only weak,
but very homesick and sad."

"Why, really, Marion, I had not any idea you had taken enough notice of
her to see all that. What a farce you must have been acting all this
time, to seem so indifferent when you were _really_ so deeply
interested!"

"If that is so, Georgie," replied Marion, as she looked her companion
steadily in the face, "I have been a better actress than you, for you
play your part so badly that the little boys in the amphitheatre might
see into the plot in the first act. I advise you to try another rôle."

Georgie opened her eyes in pretended astonishment; but she knew very
well what Marion meant, and that her intentions of tormenting her
companion were fully understood. But that fact did not prevent her from
saying in a gently insinuating tone: "Now, Marion, don't be provoked,
but _don't_ you think that Florence is rather turning the cold shoulder
on you?"

"No, Miss Graham, I do not," emphatically replied Marion, and for at
least five minutes Georgie said nothing. "I wonder!" she at last
exclaimed, "if Rachel Drayton is rich. I think she must be, for although
there is no style to her clothes, and she is of course very
dowdy-looking, still everything she has is made of the most expensive
material, and you know nice mourning costs awfully. Just look at her
vail now; see how long it is, and of the heaviest crépe; but she looks
like a ghost under it! I don't believe but what she is rich."

"Well, Georgie," replied Marion, with the slightest possible curve of
her lip, "I can satisfy you on that point. She _is quite_ well off; her
father left about two millions, and with the exception of a few legacies
of two or three hundred thousand or so, mere trifles to her, she will
have it all; you see she is pretty well provided for."

"Two millions!" exclaimed Georgie, startled out of her usual composure;
"two millions! why, I hadn't any idea of it."

"No, I thought not," dryly replied Marion.

"But, Marion, are you sure? How did you know it?"

"I heard Miss Stiefbach tell Miss Christine so the day Miss Drayton came
here."

"And you've known it all this time!" ejaculated Georgie, who could not
get over her astonishment.

"Yes," replied Marion, "I've known it all this time, and actually
haven't toadied her yet; aren't you surprised?" and Marion's voice had,
by this time, assumed its most coolly sarcastic tones, and her eyes
flashed scorn and indignation upon her bewildered companion.

"I wonder if Florence Stevenson knew it. I suppose of course she did,"
musingly remarked Georgie.

"No, she did not," sharply retorted Marion; "and she doesn't know it
now, I'm sure."

"Well, I don't know what to make of it!" replied Georgie in an annoyed
tone; "an heiress in school and no one to know it!"

"Don't you think her prettier than when you first saw her?" exclaimed
Marion, in such cutting, sarcastic tones that even Georgie winced; "and
her pale face, I'm sure you think there is something very distingué
about that, set off by her 'heavy, expensive crépe;' and then I know you
must think that there is something decidedly aristocratic about her
'lackadaisical' manner;" and Marion gave a little bitter laugh,
expressing quite as much scorn as her words.

At that moment, they entered the church porch, and Georgie made no
reply, only too glad of an excuse for silence.

Miss Stiefbach's scholars occupied the first six pews from the front;
three on each side of the broad aisle. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head of
one, with five of the youngest girls, and Miss Christine, on the
opposite side, also had some of the smaller girls with her, while the
rest of the scholars occupied the pews in front of their teachers.

As Marion entered the church, and the girls quietly took their places
and knelt in prayer, the solemn stillness of the place struck painfully
upon her. She could not so soon shake off all outward impressions, and
the cutting words which had passed her lips, just as she entered that
holy place, were still ringing in her ears.

She had risen that morning, her mind still filled with the pleasant
thoughts which had lulled her to sleep, and with good resolutions for
the future. She felt glad that it was Sunday, for she thought she was in
the mood to be benefited by the sacred influences of the day.

But where now were her good resolutions? She had yielded to the first
temptation; she had broken the vows made on her knees that morning, and
she was utterly disheartened and discouraged.

She knelt with the rest, her head bowed as if in prayer, but her mind in
a wild confusion of anger, shame, and remorse; but the anger died,
leaving nothing but the saddest, most wretched thoughts of all; the
sense of utter failure; of continued shortcomings, of broken resolutions
and disregarded vows, made sacred by the time and place of their
utterance.

She thought she was wicked because she could not pray, because her
thoughts would not become composed, quiet, and peaceful, like the place
and hour, and she knelt on, her hands clasped tightly together, and her
head pressed down into them, the only cry that could silently shape
itself into words, breaking from her heart in very agony of doubt and
despair: "O God, help me! O God, save me from myself!"

And who shall say that it was not enough? That that cry, coming from the
depths of a heart distressed, remorseful and repentant for errors that
to many would seem but trifles, did not reach the ear of Him who,
bending in mercy and love, sees into the hearts of all; reads the very
secrets of their souls; and to all who sincerely put their faith in Him
surely, sooner or later, sends them His consolation and peace? As the
others rose from their knees Marion was recalled to herself, and rising
with the rest, she opened her prayer-book and joined in the service,
which had just then commenced.

Mrs. Berkley had requested, when Marion entered Miss Stiefbach's school,
that no sectarian influences should be brought to bear upon her
daughter's mind. She wished that her child should follow her own
inclinations and the dictates of her own conscience in religious
matters, for she understood her well enough to know that she would not
blindly follow any faith without first feeling sure that she clearly
comprehended and sincerely believed all that its doctrines taught. The
influences which of course continually surrounded, although in a quiet,
unobtrusive way, were not without their effect. She loved the service of
Miss Stiefbach's church, and joined in it heartily. It seemed to her
that it brought her nearer to God if she knelt the first thing when she
entered the church and asked his blessing on her head. Not that silent,
heartfelt prayers could not be uttered anywhere and in any position; but
it seemed to her as if there, on her knees, in the place sacredly
dedicated to his worship. God did not seem so far off--as if she could
more earnestly and fervently supplicate him.

There was much in the service which she could not believe and accept as
it was intended it should be accepted; but she interpreted it as her own
heart dictated. The greater part, however, she believed and repeated
with reverence, and a feeling which could never come to her in her own
church; for there the intense simplicity and almost business-like manner
of conducting the service, struck harshly upon her sensibilities; and
she missed the participation in the prayers and responses which seemed
to draw her out of herself, and raise her thoughts above their common
level, even into the presence of the most High.

But to-day the holy words, the prayers and selections had no power to
calm her troubled spirit; she tried to fix her thoughts upon the sermon,
and not let them wander to dwell upon her own troubles; but it was no
use; her mind was still in bitter confusion when she left the church.

As she went down the path, Georgie, who seemed to have forgotten her
previous discomfiture, if not the subject of their conversation, joined
her and began plying her with fresh questions about Rachel Drayton.
Marion did her best to evade her remarks, but Georgie would not let her
alone, until, thoroughly exasperated and provoked beyond endurance, she
exclaimed shortly:--

"Georgie, I do wish you'd hold your tongue! I'm sick of your questions;
do let me alone!"

"Dear me!" replied Miss Georgie, "you were very communicative this
morning; but it's not very strange that you should be rather annoyed,
considering Rachel has taken your best friend away."

An angry retort rose to Marion's lips, but she controlled herself
sufficiently to keep from uttering it; although the expression of her
face warned Georgie that she had said quite enough, and the two
continued their walk in silence.

Having received permission from Miss Stiefbach, Marion set off
immediately after dinner for the All Saints' church, and as the services
began a half hour before St. Mark's she had her walk all to herself; nor
was she sorry for this, for she did not feel like talking to any one.

She was early; hardly any one was in the church, and without waiting for
the sexton to show her into a pew, she took the very front one, knowing
that it was almost always unoccupied. The hymns were read by the
clergyman of the parish; a good, earnest man, and one who in the homes
of the poor, and by the bedsides of the suffering and dying was often
seen, and most sincerely loved; but he had not the gift of preaching; he
rarely made his sermons go home to the hearts of his hearers, and Marion
felt disappointed when she saw him; she had hoped to hear some one else.

Her surprise and pleasure was great, when Mr. More stepped forward and
announced that Mr. B., who had been pastor of that church fifteen years
before, would preach for them that day.

The minister came forward, and bowing his head, remained for a moment in
silent prayer; when he lifted it again Marion felt as if she had seen
the face of an angel, so holy, peaceful, and patient was its expression.
He was a very old man; his hair hung long and white about his shoulders;
and as the beams of the afternoon's sun fell upon it, it gleamed with a
light which was almost unearthly, spiritualizing and sanctifying that
beautiful old face, until it seemed to many as if he were speaking to
them from the very gates of heaven. His sermon was short but impressive;
the gentle pathos of his voice, and the earnestness of his manner, were
felt by all who heard him. Bending over the pulpit as he closed his
discourse, his voice fell into a soft, musical cadence, which though
very low reached the most remote recesses of the church, and stretching
out his arms as if he would have taken each one by the hand and led them
to the haven where he had found rest and peace, he exclaimed, or rather
entreated:--

"O my friends! look down into your own hearts, and read each one of you
what is written there; pride, wilfulness, sin in many forms. Man's
greatest enemy is self. But who has said, 'He that conquereth himself is
greater than he that taketh a city'?--Jesus! Jesus the Saviour, who came
to wash out all our sins; to give us strength for the struggles and
trials which come to us all; to teach us patience, humility, and
charity.

"Each one in this world, young or old, has his sorrows to bear; his
temptations to resist; his victories to gain; and to each one it seems
sometimes as if everything was darkness and desolation; the blackness of
night surrounds them on every side; darkness! darkness everywhere! no
light, no hope, no guide. Look up, my friends! look up! not to the
darkness; but above it, beyond it, to where Christ stands, ready, ay,
more than ready. He comes to meet you, his eyes beaming with
compassionate love, his hands outstretched. Grasp those hands, hold fast
and firm; they, and they alone, can lead you through storm and darkness,
through sorrow and fear; until kneeling at last in perfect peace and
happiness you shall behold the face of your Father in heaven."

Then followed the Lord's Prayer; but Marion could not take her eyes from
that holy face. It seemed to her as if every word had been uttered for
her alone; as if the speaker had looked down into the secrets of her
heart and had tried to give her comfort and consolation.

And this was partly true. As Mr. B. leaned forward and cast his eyes
over the congregation they fell upon the face of that young girl,
looking up at him with a longing, wistful, tearful glance that startled
him. For many years he had been settled over a fashionable society in
New York, where he often felt that the words he uttered were but as
"seed sown by the wayside" or "on stony ground;" but there was no
mistaking the earnestness of that face, over which was spread an
expression which it pained him to see in one so young; for he knew that
her trials, whatever they were, were but just begun, and thinking of the
years of struggling that would probably come to her, his heart yearned
over her in deepest sympathy. With the thought of her uppermost in his
mind he gave out the closing hymn; two verses only. Marion had heard
them often before, but their depth and meaning never came to her so
fully as now:--

    "Give to the winds thy fears;
      Hope and be undismayed;
    God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears;
      He shall lift up thy head.

    "Through waves, through clouds and storms,
      He gently clears thy way;
    Wait thou his time, so shall the night
      Soon end in glorious day."

As the last notes of the choir died away, and Marion bowed her head to
receive the benediction, she felt strengthened and encouraged; and a
peace such as she had not known for months fell upon her heart.

As she passed out of church she avoided meeting any one whom she knew,
and hurried out of hearing of the remarks of various members of the
congregation, who were commenting on the sermon in very much the same
manner as if it had been a theatrical performance.

Such expressions as, "Very fine sermon, wasn't it?--hit some of us
pretty hard;" or "What a charming voice and manner! why, he really quite
touched me!" made by different persons in a flippant, off-hand tone,
jarred upon her ears, and she was thankful to leave them all behind.

As she was about to cross the street, preparatory to turning off into
the road which led to school, she stopped to allow a carriage to pass;
as it reached her a gentleman leaned towards her, and looking up she met
the eyes of the minister bent down upon her with an expression of the
deepest interest.

She never saw that face again; but the remembrance of it went with her
through her whole life.




CHAPTER IX.

THE LETTER-BAG.


Monday morning Marion sent a long letter to her mother, in which she
gave a full account of her interview with Aunt Bettie; sent the address,
and gave as accurate a description as she was able of Miss Jemima Dobbs
herself.

She waited anxiously for some days for an answer to her letter, and
could hardly keep the thought of Aunt Bettie out of her head. Friday
afternoon, when the postman came, she was the first to get to the door
and take the bag from him. As she went with it into the library, the
girls all crowded round her in eager expectation, while she stifled her
own impatience and slowly unstrapped the bag, looking provokingly
unconcerned, and quite regardless of the smiling, eager faces that were
bent over her.

"O Marion!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "don't you see I'm dying to know if
there's a letter for me? Do hurry up."

"She doesn't expect a letter herself, so she doesn't care how long she
keeps us waiting," sullenly remarked Mattie Denton; "she likes to
torment us."

"You're mistaken there, Mattie," replied Marion, with a teasing twinkle
in her eyes, "for I do expect a letter; but I like 'linked sweetness,
long drawn out,' you know. Hands off, girls!" as she slowly opened the
mouth of the bag, and two or three arms were stretched out for the
letters that filled it to the top; "hands off, I'm postman to-day, and I
won't have my rights interfered with. Let me see,--number one; that's
for Julia Thayer. Julia! where are you? Here, Fan, run upstairs and take
it to her. Number two, Grace Minton. Here, Grace, virtue recognized and
patience rewarded; you held your tongue, and see how well I've served
you;" and Marion rattled on a string of nonsense as she took out the
letters and handed them to their various owners.

"Two letters and a pamphlet for Miss Stiefbach; one for Miss Christine;
and whose is this great, fat one, I wonder, with a foreign stamp? Rachel
Drayton, I do declare!" and she was about to add, "I'm glad she's got
it;" but her habit of always treating Rachel with supreme indifference
was too strong upon her, and she only remarked, "Here, who will take
this letter up to Miss Drayton's room?"

Georgie Graham came forward and offered her services. "I am going
upstairs," she said; "I'll take it up to her."

Marion handed it to her without speaking, but elevated her eyebrows in a
very expressive way; but at that moment Rachel herself came into the
room, and Georgie stepped forward and gave her the letter, saying in her
sweetest tones:--

"Ah, Rachel! are you here? Here is a letter for you, and I could not
resist giving myself the pleasure of delivering it."

Rachel took the letter with a delighted smile, and, thanking Georgie,
ran upstairs that she might read it undisturbed; in the surprise and
pleasure of receiving it she did not notice Georgie's unusually affable
manner, or the astonished glances and expressive looks which passed
between the other girls.

Marion mentally remarked, "The two millions are taking effect; Georgie
has begun to toady already."

"Well, Marion, haven't you got a letter for me?" asked little Rose May,
who had stood patiently by Marion's side, saying nothing, but looking
longingly into the bag, the bottom of which was fast becoming visible.

"You poor little thing, how good you have been!" and Marion bent down
and kissed the expectant, little face. "I'll look over these in a jiffy,
and we'll see if there isn't one for you. Susie Brastow, May Fowler,
_Marion Berkley_, and--yes, here is yours, Rose,--Miss Rose May in great
black letters."

"Oh, it's from father! I'm so glad!" and Rose seated herself on the
floor in the bow-window, and was soon oblivious to everything but the
contents of her letter.

"Here, Grace!" exclaimed Marion, as Grace Minton passed on her way into
the drawing-room, "just take this and hang it on the nail; that's a good
girl;" and she held the letter-bag towards her.

"No, I thank you," laughingly replied Grace; "you're very anxious to be
postmaster when it comes to taking out the letters, but the rest of the
duties you want to shirk on to some one else; but I won't submit, I'm
going to do my practising."

"Oh, you unnatural, ungrateful girl!" replied Marion; "you have read
your letter, and are not even thankful to me for giving it to you,
almost the first one; and here I am perfectly wild to read mine.
However," she exclaimed with martyr-like air, "it's only another proof
of the total depravity of the human race."

"No ingratitude, Marion; but you _know_ you always get some one to hang
the bag up for you after _you_ have had the fun of taking out the
letters, and I don't think it is fair."

"Perfectly," replied Marion, as she hung the bag up in the vestibule,
ready for the girls to make their various deposits, "perfectly; equal
distribution of labor you know."

"Equal humbug!" replied Grace, who could not help laughing.

"O Grace!" called out Marion over the banisters, as Grace was about to
turn into the drawing-room, "couldn't you find out what Georgie Graham
is going to practise, for when she is in the school-room, playing
Chopin's Polonaise, and you are in the drawing-room running the
scales,--at least, to one who is not especially fond of 'close
harmony,'--the effect is not so charming as it might be."

Grace, whose musical powers were not very extensive, made up a face, and
slammed the drawing-room door, and Marion rushed precipitately into her
own room.

"Don't sit down on that bed!" cried Florence; "don't you see I've got on
the ruffled tidies?"

"O you old maid!" retorted Marion; "you know there's no place I enjoy
sitting to read my letters so much as on the bed. What possessed you to
put on those tidies to-day?"

"Why, Marion, we have been back more than seven weeks, and have not had
them on yet. Now just see how nice they look."

"They do look lovely, that's a fact;" replied Marion. "There's one thing
your respected aunt knows how to do to perfection, and that is to quill
ruffles. On the whole I'm glad you put them on; it will cure me of my
horrible habit of bouncing down on the bed; consequently save me an
innumerable amount of lectures, besides making our room look very
distingué; three excellent reasons for keeping them on, so I'll content
myself with our old seat."

"Well, Mab, do tell me what your mother writes."

"Why, I actually haven't had time to read it yet; there were crowds of
letters, and I, like a little goose, took the bag. I do hope she has
some good news of Jemima;" and Marion opened the letter and read it
aloud:--

     "BOSTON, Nov. 16th.

     "MY DEAR MARION:--I was delighted to receive your letter, but
     particularly so when I read it and found how much my dear daughter
     was interesting herself for the good of others.

     "I have just been obliged to change our parlor girl, Mary having
     gone home to be with her invalid mother, and was preparing myself
     for going the usual round of the intelligence offices, when your
     letter came. The address which you sent (I presume it was not a
     specimen of Miss Stiefbach's instruction) I took with me, for I had
     never heard of Mrs. Benson's office, and doubted very much if I
     should be able to find it.

     "As events proved, I was right, for after having crossed the city
     in every direction,--in cars, coaches and on foot,--I found that
     the place must be in Crawford Street, East Boston, instead of East
     Crawford Street, Boston; so I went to the East Boston ferry, and as
     good luck would have it, there was a directory in the office, which
     I looked over, and discovered that there was such a street, but
     could find no Mrs. Benson; however, as the directory was an old
     one, I did not trust to it, but crossed the ferry. I found the
     street without any difficulty; but when I came to No. 22, behold,
     it was occupied by a barber! I must say, I was discouraged; but
     upon going in and making inquiries, I found that Mrs. Benson had
     formerly occupied the store, but, as the colored gentleman informed
     me, 'she had removed to Boston, thinking that the crowded
     metropolis would afford her a better opportunity of carrying on her
     business, so as to render it more lucrative.' He was so extremely
     affable and polite, that I almost felt it my duty to sit down and
     have all my hair cut off; but I contented myself with buying a new
     kind of crimping-pin, which he assured me was the same as those
     used by Her Royal Highness the Empress Eugénie. Of course I
     believed him, and the crimping-pins will be ready for you when you
     come home at Christmas. But to return to my story; Mr. Ambrose St.
     Leger (don't be frightened, Marion, that is only the barber) gave
     me minute directions how to find Mrs. Benson's office, and I came
     back to the city, thankful to have some clue, however indirect it
     might be. I found the office without any difficulty, and Mrs.
     Benson, being of course very anxious to work herself into the good
     graces of a Boston lady, was extremely loquacious and obliging,
     notwithstanding I was unable to suit myself there with a servant.
     To make a long story short, she told me that she had received
     several letters for a Jemima Dobbs, but as she had never had any
     such girl in her office, after keeping them some time, she had
     burned them up.

     "I must say I felt extremely disheartened, for I thought that if I
     found the right woman she would certainly be able to tell me
     something about Jemima Dobbs. She produced her books, and upon
     looking over them I found the name of Arabella Dobbs. It seemed
     ridiculous to think that could be the same person I wanted, but I
     had an inward conviction that it was, and I have still; though
     don't get elated yet. Mrs. Benson, who relies more upon her memory
     than her book-keeping, says she is sure she got Arabella Dobbs a
     place in East Boston several weeks ago, and she is going to write
     to the lady, to find out if she is still there, and if she ever had
     the name Jemima. I thanked her for the interest she had taken in
     the case, and gave her my address, as she promised to send me word
     the instant she received an answer to her letter.

     "And now, my dear, that is all I have to tell you. Very
     unsatisfactory I know it is; but I feel quite sure that Arabella
     Dobbs and Jemima Dobbs are one and the same person, for it is very
     seldom that one comes across a Yankee girl in these offices, and
     Dobbs is a name one would not be likely to find there twice.

     "You will be the best judge of what it is best to do about telling
     Mrs. Dobbs what I have written to you; perhaps it will be better to
     wait until you hear something more conclusive; but the suspense
     must be terrible for her to bear, and it may be some consolation
     for her to know there is some one interesting herself for her here.

     "I will write just as soon as I hear from Mrs. Benson; and now, my
     darling, I really have not another moment to spare you.

     "Your father sends his usual stock of love, and ever so many
     messages, which I could not remember if I tried; but they were all
     very affectionate and so complimentary, that perhaps it is just as
     well you should not hear them.

     "Charlie is asleep, and Fred has not yet come in from baseball; so
     you must content yourself with a whole heart-full of love from your
     fond

     "MAMMA."

"Now, Flo, was there ever such a darling mamma as mine? I do think she
is just perfection,--going all over Boston, and East Boston too, and
never saying she was tired, or anything of the sort. I don't think there
are many women that would do that; do you, Flo?"

"No, I don't believe there are many like her; I think she is the
loveliest woman I ever knew. But, Marion, I don't see as you have found
out much about poor Jemima after all."

"No, there is not much real, satisfactory information, that's a fact;
but I _feel_ just as if that girl was the right one, and I know mamma
must feel pretty sure of it too, or she would have waited for the answer
to that letter before she wrote me. I shall go up to auntie's as soon as
I can; but I'm afraid it won't be before Saturday, for you know
to-morrow is English composition day, and next day French abstract, and
I was so careless about mine last time that I really think I ought to
lay myself out this week."

"Indeed you ought, Marion," exclaimed Florence; "it's a shame that a
girl who can write such compositions as you can, when you have a mind
to, should hand in such a flat, silly thing as your last one was. I'm
not complimentary, I know, but it's the truth; you know yourself it was
horrible."

"Yes, I know it was; and that is why I'm particularly anxious to have a
good one this time; don't you see?"

"But don't you think you will be able to get up to Aunt Bettie's before
Saturday?" asked Florence; "it seems hard to keep her in suspense."

"I really don't see how I can find time, and then I'm in hopes that if I
wait, by that time the answer to that woman's letter will have come, and
I shall hear something decisive from mamma."

"Well, I think after all perhaps it will be better for you to wait until
then. But do you know it is after four o'clock, and the girls have all
got through practising? We ought to go down and try our duet."

"Sure enough!" exclaimed Marion, springing up. "I don't know my part at
all; haven't looked at the last two pages, and Mr. Stein comes
to-morrow."

"Oh, you read music so quickly, that you'll play your part better at
sight than I shall after I've practised it a week. I wish I could read
faster."

"Don't wish it, Flo; it is very nice sometimes, but I don't think people
who read easily ever play readily without their notes. Now for you to
know a piece once is to know it always, with or without your notes,
while I have to fairly pound it into my head."

"There is more truth than poetry in that, I know," replied Florence, as
the two went downstairs together, "for I have heard Aunt Sue complain of
the same thing; nevertheless I wish I wasn't so awfully slow."

But we will leave them to their music, and musical discussions, and
hurry on with our story.




CHAPTER X.

MARION'S RIDE.


Marion had no other letter from her mother during the week, and she was
so busy the whole time with her studies, music, etc., that it was not
until Saturday afternoon that she started on her errand.

The weather had been unusually cold, and the previous night there had
been quite a heavy fall of snow, which, notwithstanding it was now only
the middle of November, still remained on the ground, and the thick,
gray sky gave promise that there was yet more to come; indeed before
Marion was fairly ready the flakes began to make their appearance, and
came lazily down, as if they did not all relish being called out so
early.

But Marion did not mind wind or weather, and with her water-proof over
her thick sack, the hood drawn up over her head, and her feet encased in
rubbers, she set out for her long walk in the most excellent spirits.

Florence went to the door with her and urged her to take an umbrella,
but Marion laughed at the idea, saying, "It was only a little flurry and
would be over in a minute;" but before she had reached Aunt Bettie's she
wished she had taken Florence's advice, for the snow came down thicker
and faster, beating against her face, and almost blinding her, so that
it was with great difficulty that she could see her way, and it was at
least an hour before she arrived at the farm-house.

She went round to the back of the house, and without knocking lifted the
latch of the door, and entered a sort of shed or unplastered room,
which in summer was used as a kitchen, but which now served as a
wood-shed.

"Aunt Bettie," cried Marion, "are you there?" and she stamped her feet,
and shook her clothes to get rid of the snow which covered her from head
to foot.

"For the goodness' sakes, who's that?" exclaimed Aunt Bettie as she
jumped up from her seat by the kitchen fire, where she had fallen asleep
over her knitting, and hurried into the outer room.

"Why, it's only me, auntie, to be sure," said Marion.

"Marion Berkley! well, did I ever! but massy me," as she took hold of
Marion's water-proof, "you're as wet as a drownded rat; I'd no idee it
snowed so hard!"

"Oh, it's only wet on the outside; _I'm_ not wet a bit;" and Marion took
off her water-proof and hung it over a chair to dry, pulling off her
rubbers and placing them on the floor beside it; "but why don't you ask
me what I came for, auntie?"

"Wall, child, to tell the truth, I was so s'prised to see yer that I
didn't think anything 'bout what yer come for, and I aint going to ask
nuther, 'till you jist seat yourself in front o' that fire and toast
them feet o' yourn. I never see sich a child! To think o' your startin'
out sich weather's this to come and see me!"

"It didn't snow much when I left school, and I hadn't the least idea it
would be such a storm; it's so early, you know. Florence wanted me to
bring an umbrella, but I wouldn't; I never will carry one if I can help
it."

"Wall, it is a reg'lar out-and-outer," exclaimed Aunt Bettie, as she
stood peering through the window at the storm; "winter's sot in airly
this time, an' no mistake. I tell you what," as she came back to the
fire and seated herself beside Marion, "if you've come for anything
pertickler, I guess you better tell it right away, fur it won't do fur
you to stop long, it gathers so."

"Well, I did come for something particular, auntie, but you must not
expect too much;" and Marion, who saw that Aunt Bettie was unusually
excited, notwithstanding she tried to appear composed, laid her hand on
her arm in a soothing, caressing way. "It is only a little bit of
comfort for you, not any real hope, except that you will perhaps feel
encouraged to know that you have friends in the city looking for your
daughter, and although I do not know anything certain about her, I think
mamma has got hold of some clue. But I'll read you what she says; you
know I promised to write her, and I did, and this is her answer."

Aunt Bettie signed for Marion to go on; she was too much moved to speak,
although her emotion was caused quite as much by gratitude as anxiety,
for she had waited so long, and up to this time in such perfect silence,
that hope had almost died out within her, and she really did not expect
any joyful tidings.

At the conclusion of the letter Marion looked up, almost dreading to
meet Aunt Bettie's glance, feeling sure that it must be one of
disappointment; but, contrary to her expectations, the good woman's face
was positively beaming through her tears, as she exclaimed in an almost
joyful tone:--

"The Lord bless you, Miss Marion, and your mother too, for you're a pair
of Christians if there ever was one! I'm jist sure that that Arabella
Dobbs is my Jemimy; an' I'll tell yer why I think so. Yer see the gal
that set my darter up to goin' to Boston used to visit some o' her
kinfolk down in the village, an' that's how she and Jemimy got
acquainted; she put it into my gal's head that _Jemimy_ was an awful
country kind of a name,--her own was Belindy,--and she always called
her Arabella, an' jist as like as not Jemimy was fool enough to go an'
give _that_ as her name. I declare she orter been ashamed of herself!"
and Mrs. Dobbs' indignation so far got the better of her grief, that if
Miss Jemimy had been there in the flesh it is quite probable she would
have received at least a good scolding.

"Why, auntie, if that is so," replied Marion, "I've no doubt it's the
same girl; but how do you suppose she happened to go to East Boston
instead of Boston?"

"Oh, like's not that Belindy Beers lived in East Boston, and jist said
Boston 'cause she thought 'twas smarter. I never could bear that gal
anyhow, an' if it hadn't been for her my darter'd been here now."

"Well, you know I haven't really found her yet," said Marion, who was
afraid that Aunt Bettie's ire had caused her to lose sight of that fact;
"we only have some _probability_ of finding out where she is."

"I know, dear, I know all that, but I do feel better; it does seem as if
there couldn't be two sich good creeturs as you an' your mother doin'
your best to help me, and no good to come of it. 'T any rate I aint
goin' to despond any more; it's like flyin' in the face o' Providence,
and until I hear wus news I shall jist hope for the best."

"Aunt Bettie, I'm glad enough to hear you say so; I _can't_ help feeling
very hopeful myself, and I'm glad you can feel the same."

"Well, child, I think it's the right way arter all; 'taint my nater
usually to be very despondent, but somehow I got entirely discouraged;
but _I should_ be an ungrateful woman enough if I didn't thank you over
and over again. I can't speak it all, but I feel it jist the same."

"Indeed, auntie, it is not me, but mamma, that you must thank. I have
done nothing but write to her, and she has done all the work."

"Yes, and how would she have known it, if it hadn't been for you? I
thank her, the Lord knows I do, from the bottom of my heart, but it's
all owin' to you, child, nevertheless. If you hadn't had quick eyes to
see into my troubles, and a warm heart to put you up to helpin' me, what
would she a' known about it? No, no, dear, you're the fust one I owe my
thanks to, and whether I ever find Jemimy again or not, I shall always
love you, and bless you for what you've done for me so long's I live."

And Marion knew that Aunt Bettie meant every word she said, and she did
not again try to alter her opinion. It was pleasant indeed to know that
there was any one who could have such a high regard for her; and with a
warmth about her heart which it was pleasant to feel, and a light in her
eyes which it would certainly have done any one good to see, she sat
talking with Mrs. Dobbs, both of them oblivious to the fact that time
was fast slipping away, until, upon looking up, Marion was astonished to
see that it was long after four o'clock.

"Why, auntie!" she exclaimed, "see how dark it is growing; we've been
talking nearly an hour. I must hurry off this minute, or I shall be
frightened to death before I get home."

"Why, sure enough, it's most five o'clock! I'd no idee of it. But massy
sakes!" cried Aunt Bettie as she went to the window, "jest come here and
look out! Why, you can't walk home in this snow nohow; why, it's up to
your ankles! I never see snow gather so quick in my life."

Marion went to the window, and took a survey of the scene. It certainly
did not look very promising. The snow had gathered so rapidly that the
roads were covered several inches deep, and darkness appeared to be fast
approaching. Marion looked decidedly troubled; but there was no help for
it; go she must; for she knew that Miss Stiefbach would be very much
worried about her; so putting on as good a face as possible she said:--

"Well, auntie, I haven't a moment to spare; it is really quite dark, and
it will take me longer to go than it did to come;" and Marion was
hurrying out of the room to get her water-proof when Aunt Bettie caught
hold of her:--

"You jest set down in that cheer, and don't you stir out of it till I
tell yer you may! Do you s'pose I'm goin' to send you home afoot when
it's sich walkin's this? No; not if my name's Sarey Ann Dobbs. You jest
wait, and you shall have one sleigh-ride this year if you don't ever get
another."

"Aunt Bettie, what do you mean?" exclaimed Marion.

"You jest wait, and you'll see what I mean." Auntie went into the outer
room, and opening the door shouted at the very top of her lungs in a
shrill, high key: "Jabe! Jabe Dobbs, be you there?" but Jabe did not
respond to the maternal call. "Jabe! Ja-a-a-be!" Then in an undertone,
"Plague take that boy! he's the laziest creetur I ever did see!"

Presently there came a reply from one of the outside sheds in a slow,
drawling voice; very much as if the owner of it had heard the first
summons, but was not in a great hurry to heed it:--

"H-e-r-e!"

"Wall, come in this minit, and don't keep me standin' here holdin' this
door open any longer!"

In a few moments, but in what seemed to Marion almost an eternity, heavy
steps were heard on the flagstone, and directly after, a youth of about
sixteen made his appearance in the door-way, and slowly knocking the
snow off his boots, asked in the same drawling tone:--

"What do yer want?"

"You come inside, and I'll tell yer," replied his mother.

"Well, yer might o'--" but catching sight of Marion his head went down,
and Jabe stood sheepishly twirling his hat in his hands, shuffling from
one foot to the other, apparently too bashful for speech.

"Don't stan' there twirlin' yer hat, and lookin' like a great idiot, but
jest step round and be spry. Did you get down the big sleigh t'other day
when I told yer to?"

Jabe nodded assent.

"Well, it's a wonder! Now you go out and tackle up Shadrack as quick as
ever you can, and hev him round to the door, less'n no time; no
shillyshallyin!"

"What shall I put him into arter I get him tackled?" asked the hopeful
youth, with a momentary glance at Marion from under his shaggy eyebrows.

"Why, put him into the sleigh, to be sure; what'd you s'pose?"

"Well, you didn't tell me, an' I didn't know but p'r'aps she was goin'
to ride him," replied Jabe, with another glance at Marion, which almost
upset her gravity.

"You didn't think any such a thing, and you know you didn't! You're to
drive Miss Marion back to school, and you jest hurry out; and don't let
the grass grow under yer feet either!"

"Aint much danger," replied Jabe, as he shuffled off; "it's most through
sproutin' fur this year, and 'taint quite ready fur next."

"Now, Miss Marion, did you _ever_ see sech a boy as that?" exclaimed
Aunt Bettie in righteous indignation; "he worries my life out of me!"

"What is the matter with him?" asked Marion, who was intensely amused at
the ridiculous-looking object she had just seen, and his comical,
awkward ways; "there doesn't seem to be anything very bad about him."

"Bad! of course there isn't, but he _is_ so powerful slow! There's no
doin' nothin' with him; he's too lazy to work, and he's too lazy to
study. But there's one thing, he's honest as he ken be, and I rally do
think he does set consid'rable store by me; though he _does_ try my
patience awfully."

"Of course he thinks a great deal of you," replied Marion; "he's just at
a lazy age now. I dare say he'll get over it, and prove a great comfort
to you one of these days."

"Oh, he's a comfort now, in a sort of a way. He's stiddy enough; but
laws! he's too lazy to be anything else."

"He'll wake up yet, auntie, see if he doesn't. There's a twinkle in his
eyes that shows he's nobody's fool."

"Oh, I never supposed he was quite as bad's that; but he haint found his
niche yet; when he does I s'pose he'll fit into it as tight as a
pertater does its skin."

In much shorter time than Marion had expected, judging from what she had
seen of Jabe's activity, the jingle of bells was heard, and directly
after, the musical voice of Mrs. Dobbs' young hopeful called out:--

"I'm ready if you be!"

Aunt Bettie opened the door, her face positively radiant with smiles and
the pleasure she felt at being able to give Marion a ride.

As Marion's eyes beheld the equipage that stood ready for her use, it
must be confessed that her first sensation was anything but agreeable.
In common with most girls of her age, and I might say with girls
considerably older than herself, she had a great admiration for handsome
horses, elegant carriages, and a driver in keeping with the rest of the
establishment.

Certainly no one could say, however, that her driver was not perfectly
in keeping with the establishment of which he evidently felt extremely
proud; for he sat on the front seat, holding the reins in both hands, as
if poor Shadrack was a four-in-hand team, or at least a tandem with a
very refractory leader.

The sleigh itself was of such peculiar structure, that it would have
been almost impossible to have decided at what ancient period it must
have been made. In shape, it most resembled that elegant vehicle
commonly known as a "pung," excepting that it boasted of two seats, and
a back that nearly reached the top of Marion's head. Its color was a
beautiful pea-green, ornamented with various scrolls and devices in
bright yellow, which might have been a combination of the paternal and
maternal crests of Jabe's ancestors, but looked wonderfully like
squash-vines.

Around old Shadrack's neck was hung a string of iron bells about the
size of small cannon-balls, which jingled most melodiously every time he
moved. But Marion's good sense would not allow her to yield to any
feeling of mortification which she might feel at the idea of appearing
at school in such a turn-out. She only thought of Aunt Bettie's kindness
in ordering out her old horse on such an unprecedented occasion; and
thanking her warmly and sincerely for her thoughtfulness, she stepped
into the sleigh and was driven off by Jabe, who flourished the whip over
Shadrack's ears, quite regardless of his mother's warning, "not to let
the critter trot fast, 'cause 'twas heavy haulin'; the snow was so
soggy."

For some time they jogged along, the silence only broken by the
monotonous jingle of the bells. It had stopped snowing, and the sky was
quite bright in the west, making it much lighter than it was earlier in
the afternoon; touching up the trees with a rosy light, and casting a
soft glow on the fields, as they passed along.

Marion forgot everything else in the pleasure of watching the fading
light, and was quite oblivious to the existence of Jabe, until she was
roused from her silent observations by a mild "ger-lang!" which reminded
her that it certainly was her duty to make herself agreeable to her
escort.

She hardly knew what to say to him, but she ventured to remark "that the
horse did not look as if he was worked very hard."

"Worked hard!" exclaimed Jabe. "Lord, he don't know what work is! I just
wish I had as easy a time as Shadrack."

"What in the world did you name him Shadrack for?" exclaimed Marion.

"Me!" replied Jabe, turning round slowly and looking at Marion out of
the corner of his eye, "'twant none o' my doin's, 'twas father's; he
allus liked something different from anybody else, and that time I think
he hit it."

"Yes, I think he did," replied Marion, smiling in spite of herself; then
in a soberer tone she asked, "Do you remember your father, Jabe?"

"No, he died 'fore I was two years old."

"Don't you wish he could have lived?"

"Well now, that depends on circumstances," replied Jabe in a
deliberating tone; "if he was such a fellow for work as the marm, I
can't say as I _should_ be very particular 'bout havin' him round."

"Why, Jabe Dobbs!" exclaimed Marion, striving to conceal her laughter,
"aren't you ashamed of yourself? I dare say it would be better for you,
if your mother made you work a great deal harder than she does."

"O Lord! Miss Marion!" cried Jabe, in the most horrified tone, but with
a twinkle in his eyes which Marion fully appreciated; "if she did I
couldn't live nohow. You see, work and I don't hitch hosses; we weren't
meant to go 'longside the same pole; and if one of us has got to stan'
still, I think it might's well be me, and let _work_ go."

At this Marion laughed outright, but not a muscle of his face did Jabe
move, and if it had not been for that sly twinkle in his eye when he
lifted it to Marion's face one would have thought he was solving some
weighty problem.

He sat round sideways, one leg on the seat, and the reins now hanging
loosely in his hands, as Shadrack jogged lazily on, while he was
evidently highly pleased and flattered by Marion's attention.

"Well, Jabe," continued Marion, "perhaps, if you don't like to work, you
like to study. Do you ever go to school?"

"I went last winter by spells, an' I s'pose I shall go this winter too."

"Do you like it?" asked Marion; "what do you like best,--spelling?"

"Spelling," repeated Jabe, in a ruminating tone,--"spelling, no, I don't
like it much, that is, I don't like it the way they larn you down there.
I think p'r'aps if they'd let a feller follow his own fashion I might
like it; but they put in so many letters that there aint no kind o'
sense in havin', that it jest confuses me, an' so I ginerally spells
accordin' to fancy."

"O Jabe!" replied Marion, "that will never do in the world; but perhaps
you like arithmetic better."

"'Rithmetic!" and Jabe fairly dropped the reins and struck an emphatic
blow on his knee, as he exclaimed again: "'rithmetic! I tell you _there_
you got me. If there is anything I do hate on the face o' this airth,
it's 'rithmetic! Spellin's bad enough, but 'rithmetic's wus. When you
set me to doin' a sum it's jest like the feller that had to go through
the drill for the whole regiment; he got on fust-rate till they told him
to go form a holler-square; but he said _that_ 'wrenched him awfully.'"

"O Jabe! Jabe!" cried Marion, now fairly convulsed with laughter, "I am
afraid you will never make much of a scholar anyway. But, indeed, you
ought to try and do better; just think what a comfort you might be to
your mother, if you would only----But stop the horse, stop the horse a
minute; I've got an idea!"

Jabe drew up the reins with a sudden jerk, and looked at Marion as if
she had scattered every idea he ever possessed.

"You jump out!" she exclaimed; "no, you needn't do that; just help me
over on to the front seat, and then you climb on to the back. I'm going
to drive up to school in style."

Jabe dropped the reins, and did as he was told, with a very bewildered
expression on his great, round face, as he looked at Marion very much as
if he doubted her sanity; but she went on talking very fast as she
tucked in the almost worn-out robe, and took the reins in her hands.

"Don't you see, we're almost to the school, and everybody will be on the
lookout for me; so I want to dash up to the door in very stunning
fashion. Now sit up straight; fold your arms; hold your head
up;--so,--that's it; you're my tiger; that means the groom, boy, you
know, who sits behind when the gentleman drives. Now, when I stop the
horse, you jump out just as quick as ever you can and rush to his head,
as if you thought he wouldn't stand still long enough for me to get
out. Do you understand?"

"Yes," replied Jabe, who sat as straight as a ramrod, his eyes twinkling
under his bushy, fur cap, and his mouth stretched from ear to ear. If he
didn't love work, he certainly did a good joke, and he entered fully
into the spirit of the thing.

"Well, now, keep sober, and don't forget what I told you."

Marion braced her feet against the dasher; threw back her shoulders;
extended her arms at full length, and gave poor old Shadrack such a
tremendous "cut" with the whip that he sprang forward as if forty fiends
were after him; but Marion was used to driving, and only flourished the
old wooden-handled ox-whip, and urged him on the faster.

Everything happened precisely as Marion wished. Of course Miss Stiefbach
had become considerably alarmed at her long absence, and every one had
come into the front of the house, and all were looking out for her,
their faces pressed up against the window-panes as they crowded
together.

Just as Marion came in sight some one opened the front door; this was
what she wanted. Giving the whip an extra flourish, and saying in an
undertone to Jabe, "Be ready," she dashed up to the gate, and suddenly
drew the reins up short. Poor Shadrack, being thus brought to a very
unexpected stand-still, threw his head up in the air, and planted his
fore feet straight out in front of him, in a most warlike attitude.
Almost before they stopped Jabe sprang out and grasped the poor panting
beast by the head, as Marion threw the reins down, and stepping to the
ground exclaimed in a pompous tone, loud enough to be heard by those
standing in the door-way, "Rub him down well, Thomas, and give him an
extra measure of oats;" then, as she turned into the gate, "and Thomas,
have the tandem at the door in the cutter, to-morrow-morning at ten."

Jabe, not to be outdone, touched his hat, sprang on to the seat, and
whisked Shadrack round and up the road, at a pace that would have made
his mother hold up her hands in holy horror.

"Why, Marion Berkley, where _have_ you been?" exclaimed a chorus of
voices, Miss Stiefbach's actually among the number.

"I've been taking an airing on the Western Avenue. How do you like my
turn-out? Neat but not gaudy, isn't it?"

"Well, Marion, I don't know what you will do next," said Miss Christine;
"but where have you really been?"

"Marion, I must ask you to give a strict account of yourself," said Miss
Stiefbach, who, now that she had recovered from her unusual surprise and
alarm, was her own stately self again. Whereupon Marion gave a brief and
satisfactory history of her afternoon's expedition, embellishing it with
sundry remarks and expressions of her own, which rendered it highly
entertaining to her younger hearers; and I might say to all but Miss
Stiefbach, for Miss Christine joined heartily in the general laugh at
Marion's first sleigh-ride of the season.




CHAPTER XI.

LA SOIRÉE MUSICALE.


"Girls! what do you think's up?" exclaimed Sarah Brown, as she bounced
into the library one afternoon. "Miss Stiefbach and Mr. Stein have just
been having a long confab in the 'secret-chamber,' and they came out
just as I passed the door, and I heard Miss 'Stiffy' say, 'Yes, I knew
you would prefer Friday, so I ventured to invite them without seeing you
again; as yet the young ladies know nothing about it!' Now _I_ should
like to knew what in the world _it_ is."

"Well, so should I!" exclaimed Julia Thayer. "What can she mean;
'invited them,' and 'the young ladies know nothing about it.' She must
be going to give a party."

"Yes, that's it, you may be sure," said Marion; "she's going to give a
party, and she and Mr. Stein are going to lead the German. Won't they
look well dancing the 'deux-temps' together?"

"O Marion, how perfectly ridiculous!" laughed Florence. "You know she
can't be going to have a party; but what can it mean?"

"Are you sure you heard right, Sallie?" asked Grace Minton. "Why didn't
you break your shoe-string and stop to tie it up; or do something or
other to keep you there long enough to get something a little more
satisfactory?"

"Why, I couldn't hang round the hall listening to what they said, could
I? But I know there is to be something going on here Friday; see if
there isn't."

"Yes, and Miss Stiefbach isn't going to say anything about it to us
until the last moment, because she thinks our heads will be full of it,"
ejaculated Marion. "I've a great mind to ask her myself."

"If I was in the habit of betting, I would bet you anything that I know
all about it," remarked Georgie Graham, who had kept silent while the
other girls were making their comments.

"Oh, what is it?" asked Marion; "my principles and my purse too will
stand a pound of candy."

"And I another," cried Sarah.

"Not so fast," replied Georgie. "I said _if_ I was in the habit of
betting, but I never bet; it is very unladylike."

"Granted!" cried Marion; "but please reserve your lecture for another
time, and out with your secret."

"I really don't know as I _ought_ to tell," said Georgie, as she counted
the stitches on her canvas in a provokingly cool way. "I knew it by
accident, and that is the reason I haven't spoken of it before."

"Oh, if you got possession of it in the same way you have of several
other secrets here, I don't blame you for not wanting to tell of it,"
retorted Sarah.

"I don't know what you mean to insinuate, Sarah; but I heard of this
entirely by accident two weeks ago to-morrow," replied Georgie in the
same unmoved tone. "I was in the anteroom looking over an exercise which
monsieur wanted me to correct, when I heard Mr. Stein and Miss Stiefbach
talking together in very low tones in the school-room. Of course it did
not occur to me that there could be anything private in what they were
saying, or I should have let them know I was there"--("Of course,"
laconically remarked Marion)--"but when they had got through their
conversation Miss Stiefbach said, 'We will say nothing about it to any
one, as I wish it should remain a secret for the present;'--so I said
nothing."

"Well, don't you _intend_ to say anything?" cried Sarah Brown; "now that
we know there is something going on, don't you intend to tell us what it
is?"

"I really don't think it would be very honorable in me," rejoined
Georgie, thoroughly enjoying her important position.

"Don't trouble her, Sarah; we all know what her conscientious scruples
are. It would be a pity to have them disturbed," remarked Marion in a
cutting, sarcastic tone. "I can tell you what it all means in five
seconds."

"What is it?--tell us, do!" cried all, with the exception of Georgie.

"Miss Stiefbach intends to have some sort of a musical spread next
Friday, and we girls have got to play."

"How did you know it?" exclaimed Georgie, thoroughly off her guard.

"I didn't take your method of finding it out, you may be sure," replied
Marion. "I never heard a word about it before this afternoon; but if you
put two and two together they generally make four, that's all."

"What do you mean by putting 'two and two together'?" impatiently asked
Julia Thayer.

"Why, just this!" replied Marion. "Does Mr. Stein have an earthly thing
to do with this school except to give us music-lessons? and is there
anything that Miss Stiefbach could be getting up with him, that
concerned the 'young ladies' that didn't have something to do with our
music? and would she be inviting people here when it was convenient to
_him_ if it wasn't that they are going to give a musicale, and he is
going to make us play? So there you've got the whole matter; I don't
think it required much brilliancy to see that."

"Well, I _never_ should have thought of it!" exclaimed Sarah.

"Nor I either," said Florence. "But don't you think it is awfully mean
not to have let us known anything about it beforehand, so that we might
have had time to practise?"

"I presume Mr. Stein has been secretly drilling us for it this long
time, though we poor, unconscious victims didn't suspect it," replied
Marion. "But there's Georgie, she has the advantage of us; she has
probably decided what she is going to play, and has learned it
perfectly." But there was no reply from Georgie as she had discreetly
left the room.

"Oh, isn't she sly?" exclaimed Grace Minton.

"Sly! sly isn't the word for it," put in Sarah Brown in her most
energetic tones; "she ought to have been named Foxy Graham!"

"Well, there's one thing certain," said Grace Minton, "I shan't have to
play; I thank my stars for that!"

"I wonder who will play," said Florence. "Georgie Graham of course;
Julia; and you Mab; and I rather guess I shall have to. Well, I don't
much care, I don't believe there will be many here, and I think it's
time I learned to play before strangers."

"I don't know how I shall ever get on in the world," cried Marion in a
despairing tone; "that is about the only thing I never could do."

"And I think it is so strange," remarked Julia Thayer; "for you see so
much company at home, and always seem so self-possessed wherever you
are, that it does seem queer that you are afraid to play before people."

"I know it. I dare say every one thinks it is all affectation," replied
Marion, "for I know you all think I've got assurance enough to do most
anything; but it is the honest truth, that I'm frightened half to death
whenever I sit down to play to any one; and if I get along well at this
affair of Miss Stiefbach's, it will be nothing but my _will_ that
carries me through."

"So you mean to play, do you?" asked Georgie Graham, who at this
juncture suddenly made her appearance in the room.

"Yes, I mean to play if I'm asked, and I suppose I shall be, because I
think I ought. I am determined to overcome this ridiculous nervousness,
even if it is at the expense of fifty mortifying failures before I do
it; so, girls, look out and prepare yourselves for a public disgrace;
for of _course_ there is not one of you who would not take it quite to
heart if I should break down."

"Well," replied Sarah Brown in the most energetic tone (Sarah almost
always spoke in italics), "I know I for one should feel dreadfully;
though of _course_ I can't answer for some of the rest of us;" and she
cast a meaning glance at Georgie.

"I'm sure, Marion, I _hope_ you won't fail," said Georgie as she picked
up her work, her ostensible reason for coming back, and left the room.

"I know one thing," exclaimed Sarah; "if that girl kept a list of all
the lies she tells in a week, white and black; she'd use up all the
letter-paper there is in the town."

"O Sallie!" laughed Florence, "you're too severe. I'm afraid you don't
entertain a Christian spirit towards Georgie."

"I don't, and I don't pretend to!" answered Sarah. "I never did like
her, and I never shall; she's always saying something to aggravate me."

"But she didn't say anything to you then," said Julia Thayer, with a
mischievous twinkle in her eyes; "she was only _hoping_ that Marion
would not break down."

"Yes, and a lot she hoped it!" excitedly replied Sarah; "there's
nothing would suit her better than to have Mab make a regular failure of
it; and I just wanted to let her know I thought so."

"Now, Sarah," said Marion, in a half-laughing, half-serious tone, "don't
you trouble yourself to fight my battles. I think I am quite equal to it
myself; besides, you'll have your hands full to look after your own
squabbles."

"There's ingratitude for you!" said Grace Minton. "If I were you,
Sallie, I never would trouble myself about her again; she doesn't
deserve such a champion."

"Oh, I don't mind what she says," replied Sarah, good-naturedly; "she
can't make me hold my tongue, and I shall say just what I've a mind to,
to that Georgie Graham, so long as she keeps on tormenting me."

That evening the whole school was informed that on the following Friday
Miss Stiefbach was to give a soirée musicale, at which ten of the
scholars were to perform.

These were Marion Berkley, Florence Stevenson, Alice Howard, Mattie
Denton, Julia Thayer, Georgie Graham, Susie Snelling, Kate Brastow, and,
to the surprise of every one, little Rose May and Fannie Thayer.

Of course nothing was talked of that week out of study hours, but the
soirée, and great indignation was expressed by most of the performers
that they had not been allowed more time to prepare themselves. But Mr.
Stein knew what he was about; he wished the musicale to be as much as
was possible an impromptu affair, as it was not his idea to make an
exhibition of the skill of his pupils, but to accustom them to play with
ease and self-possession before strangers. He gave his pupils a list of
their names in the order in which they were to play, selected from the
music belonging to each girl several pieces, from which she was to
choose one, exercising her own taste and judgment; decided himself upon
the duets he wished performed, and then informed them that his part in
the matter was ended; from that moment he was to be nothing but a
spectator.

"But, Mr. Stein," exclaimed one, "just _please_ tell me, can I play this
well enough?" and then from a second, "O Mr. Stein, _would_ you play
this?" and "Oh, I never can play _any_ of these before any one!" from a
third, and many other exclamations and lamentations were poured upon
him; but he only held up his hands in a deprecating way. "Now, young
ladies, do not, do not, I beg of you, ask me another question! I
consider that you know any one of the pieces which I have laid aside for
you to choose from sufficiently well to play anywhere; it only remains
for you to decide which one you will play. Now, good-by until Friday;
you will not see me until then, when I shall not come as your teacher,
but as an invited guest, to have my ears delighted with the sweet sounds
which I shall expect to hear from that instrument;" and with a profound
bow the old German made his exit.

But, notwithstanding his apparent unconcern as to the result of this new
whim of his, Mr. Stein was really quite excited about it; several of his
pupils at Miss Stiefbach's he considered were quite remarkable for their
age, and he looked forward to the coming musicale with a feeling of
pride not unmixed with fear, lest some of his favorites should fail to
do themselves credit.

Marion had noticed that for two weeks before the secret was generally
known Georgie Graham had practised Chopin's Polonaise in A, every day,
but since the whole school had been informed of the musicale she had
only heard her play it twice. This induced her to think that Georgie,
taking advantage of the knowledge which she had surreptitiously gained,
had chosen that piece for Friday night, and having nearly perfected
herself in it, was avoiding practising it, so that none of the girls
might suspect what she intended to play.

Marion would not have been likely to have thought of this, if she had
not taken the Polonaise about the same time that Georgie had, and had
often remarked that she thought Georgie played it better than anything
else, and very much better than she did herself. Remembering this, and
knowing that Georgie would be particularly anxious to excel her in the
eyes of the whole school, and before invited guests, she felt perfectly
confident that Chopin's Polonaise was the piece she had chosen.

Now Georgie had certainly done everything she could to make Marion
thoroughly uncomfortable ever since they had been back at school, and
Marion had been actually longing for an opportunity to revenge herself.
Here was the opportunity. The soirée was to open with a duet by Mattie
Denton and Julia Thayer; then a solo by Florence, followed by a song
from Alice Howard; then a piano solo from Marion, and after her Georgie
Graham. This precedence over Georgie gave Marion the opportunity which
she could not resist. She would play the Polonaise herself, thus forcing
Georgie to choose another piece almost without a moment's notice.

Do not despise her, my friends; she was very much like other girls, and
had a natural desire to punish Georgie for all the mean, petty
annoyances to which she had been subjected at her hands. A very wrong
desire, I grant you, and one for which she blamed herself very much; but
she had it, and consequently as a faithful chronicler I must write it.

But do not for a moment suppose that she intended publicly to disgrace
her school-mate; nothing of the kind; she knew that Georgie was
perfectly capable, and perfectly willing to play any of her music before
no matter how many strangers. She only wanted to provoke her, and spoil
her nicely arranged plan of playing a very difficult and very brilliant
piece of music, better than any of the other girls would be able to
play, as they had not had the advantages of practising expressly for the
occasion which she had taken. She was not at all jealous of Georgie, for
although they were generally considered the rival pianists of the
establishment, the rivalry was entirely on Georgie's side.

Many might say that they played equally well, but the few who truly
loved music for its own sake missed something in Georgie's playing which
they found in Marion's.

The secret was this: Georgie played from a love of the admiration and
praise she received, and from an ambitious resolution she had made when
a little child, that no one she knew should play better than she did
herself. Consequently every one was struck with the accuracy and
rapidity of her execution, and the brilliancy of her touch in all
difficult music; but in more quiet pieces,--pieces that required that
the soul of the performer should thrill through every chord, and vibrate
with every touch of the piano, that the full depth and beauty of their
perfect harmony might be conveyed to the listener's ear,--then it was
that Georgie's playing seemed cold and mechanical, while that of Marion
seemed an interpretation of the purest ideas of the composer.

Friday afternoon came at last. Throughout the house the two pianos had
been going at almost every hour in the day; early and late, before
breakfast and after supper, might be heard duets, solos, and songs,
until those scholars who were not to perform at the musical soirée
declared themselves thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair, and
hoped Miss Stiefbach would never have another.

This afternoon, however, no one was allowed to go near the piano, and
every girl was obliged to learn her lessons for Monday, and take her
usual amount of exercise, notwithstanding that they had all begged and
entreated to be permitted to give their last moments to music. Miss
Stiefbach was obdurate and held her ground, for she knew the girls were
all very much excited, and that nothing but a strict attention to other
things would sufficiently calm them to enable them to play at all, that
night.

But just before tea excitement reigned supreme. To be sure it was
divided and subdivided by being confined to the various rooms where the
scholars were dressing themselves for the evening; still, if an entire
stranger had walked through the lower part of the house where everything
was quiet, and no one was to be seen except Miss Christine, who was
arranging some beautiful flowers that had mysteriously made their
appearance that afternoon, he would have felt perfectly sure that some
event of an unusual and highly interesting nature was about to take
place. As a rule all the scholars dressed very plainly, for Miss
Stiefbach's motto regarding dress which she endeavored to instill into
the youthful minds about her was, "Neatness, not display."

But notwithstanding the fact that ordinarily all finery was eschewed,
almost every girl had stowed away in her trunk at least one dress a
little more elaborate than the rest of her wardrobe; a set of pretty
jewelry, or handsome ribbons, "in case anything should happen;" and now
something was actually going to happen; the dull routine of school-life
was to be broken in upon, and consequently the little vanities of this
world would have a chance to air themselves.

"To friz, or not to friz! that is the question!" exclaimed Marion, as
she turned from her looking-glass and appealed to Florence, who was
buttoning her best-fitting cloth boots.

"Why, friz of course; you know it's the most becoming."

"Oh, I know that well enough; but you see I was too sleepy to put it up
last night, and now I shall have to do it with hot slate-pencil, and
it's the ruination of the hair."

"I guess it won't hurt it for just this once, and this is certainly a
great occasion," answered Florence; "what are you going to wear on
it,--cherry?"

"Oh, no! that lovely gold band you gave me; it just suits my dress, and
lights up beautifully. I like to wear only one color when I can."

"That is all very well for you to say (these boots are _rayther_ snug),
because you're a blonde, and look well in plain colors; but I'm such a
darkey that nothing but red and yellow suits me," said Florence.

"So much the better. I don't think there is anything handsomer than a
rich orange or a bright scarlet, and sometimes a little of both is just
the thing. There! how does that look?" continued Marion, as she put the
last hair-pin in her back braids, gave an extra touch to the gleaming
waves of her front hair, and straightened the narrow gold satin band
which ran through them.

"Perfectly lovely!" enthusiastically cried Florence; "you've got it just
high enough without being a bit too high, and those crimps are heavenly!
Now put on your dress; I want to see the whole effect before I get
myself up."

"I don't think it is quite long enough, do you?" asked Marion, in a
doubtful tone, as she shook out the folds of a rich Irish poplin, and
threw it over her head; "it is so awfully hard to get a dress just
the right length, when you are not old enough for a train, and too old
to have it up to your knees! But there! how's that?" and she turned for
her friend's final verdict.

"Lovely! just lovely! That is the prettiest shade of green I _ever_ saw;
and _such_ a poplin! Where did you get it?"

"Uncle George brought it to me from Ireland; wasn't it good of him? But
come, Florence, you really must hurry; I expect the tea-bell will ring
any minute; it's a blessed thing Miss Stiefbach put tea off half an
hour, or we should never have been dressed beforehand. O Flo! what a
stunning dress! I never saw it before."

"_Do_ you like it? I didn't show it to you, for I was afraid you would
think it was terribly niggery; but I saw it in Chandler's window, and
just walked in and bought it without saying boo to auntie, and it really
is quite becoming to me, I'm so black."

"Becoming! I should think it was; I never saw you look so well in
anything in your life. If the thing had been made for you it couldn't
have suited your style better, and that Roman-gold jewelry is just right
for it; in fact, as mademoiselle used to say, you are decidedly 'comme
il faut.'"

The two girls certainly made a charming picture as they stood together,
each interested and eager that the other should look her best.

Marion's beautiful hair fell slightly over her forehead in soft, curling
waves, seeming even lighter and brighter than ever, and making the
contrast with her dark eyes and eyebrows all the more marked. Her fair
skin and glowing cheeks were set off to advantage by the rich green
dress she wore, which, though simply trimmed and in keeping with her
years, was very handsome.

It would have been hard to choose between the two, for each in her own
style was certainly very lovely.

Florence's hair was drawn off from her low, broad forehead, as she
always wore it, and she had nothing on it but a tiny gilt band, like a
golden thread encircling her head; which, though she did not know it,
was a perfect Clytie in contour. Her dress was a French poplin, the
ground a rich blue, while all over it, at regular intervals, were
embroidered singularly odd-shaped figures in the brightest-colored
silks, giving it a peculiar, piquante appearance, and perfectly suiting
the wearer's brunette beauty.

Perhaps I have given too much time and space to dress; but parents and
guardians may skip the above passage, as it is written expressly for
young girls, who, I know from personal experience, are very naturally
interested in such matters.

The hour at last arrived. The grand-piano stood between the
folding-doors which separated the two large parlors; in the back room
was Miss Christine, surrounded by all the school, and in the front sat
Miss Stiefbach and the invited guests, about twenty in number, all of
them refined, cultivated persons, many of them quite severe musical
critics.

Mr. Stein fluttered from one room to the other, trying hard to appear
unconcerned; but I doubt if any of his pupils were in a greater state of
excitement than he. It had been an undecided question whether or no he
should stand by the piano and turn over the music; but the majority
concluded that he would only make them more nervous, so he retired to
the back of the front parlor, in a position where he could command a
view of every note in the key-board.

M. Béranger made his appearance at an early hour, and declared his
intention of sitting with Miss Christine, to help her preserve order.
She remonstrated with him, telling him he could hear the music to much
better advantage in the other room; but nevertheless, when the company
was all seated, and silence reigned supreme preparatory to the opening
duet, M. Béranger quietly ensconced himself in the back parlor.

The fatal moment had at last arrived; the musicale was about to
commence.

Marion sat through the first duet, trying hard not to think of herself,
and to listen to the music; but she heard nothing but a confusion of
sounds, the beating of her own heart sounding loudest of all. Florence's
piece she did enjoy, and joined heartily in the applause which followed
its 'finale,' and gave her friend's hand a congratulatory squeeze, as
she came back to the seat beside her. But in a very few moments Alice
Howard's song was ended, and as the murmurs of approbation died away,
Marion took her seat at the piano.

To all outward appearance she was calm and self-possessed, and with a
strong effort she summoned her almost indomitable will to her aid and
struck the first chords clearly and decisively. Through the first two
pages everything went well; but just as she was about to turn over her
music, she missed one or two notes with her left hand. No one who was
not perfectly familiar with every bar of the music would have noticed
the omission; but to Marion it seemed as if she had made a terrible
discord. Her forced composure left her, and all her nervousness came
back again; she turned over hastily; the music slipped from her fingers
and fell to the keys; she grasped it blindly with both hands, but the
loose sheets fluttered to the floor, and confused, embarrassed, and
mortified almost beyond endurance; she stooped to pick them up, amid a
silence which was unbroken, save by Miss Stiefbach, who said in cold,
hard tones:--

"Miss Berkley, do not attempt to repeat your piece; such carelessness is
unpardonable."

The hot blood rushed to Marion's face; then as suddenly receded, leaving
it deathly white. She rose from the piano, and with a firm step and
untrembling lips walked quietly to her seat. But although externally she
was so calm as to appear almost indifferent, her mind was in a state of
the wildest excitement. The air immediately about her seemed filled with
a confusion of sounds, rushing, whirring, whirling about her; while the
dead silence of the room seemed to take palpable shape and weight,
crushing upon her, until she felt as if she must rush from the room to
break through the unbearable stillness, or scream aloud to silence the
imaginary sounds that were ringing in her ears.

But she did neither; she sat quietly in her seat, the object of stealthy
but almost general scrutiny. Some of the girls looked at her with
pitying, sympathizing eyes; those who did not like her exchanged glances
of satisfaction; but all refrained from speaking to her, or otherwise
showing their sympathy,--all but Florence; she slipped her hand into her
friend's, and there it remained for the rest of the evening.

When Marion first struck the piano, and Georgie Graham saw what she was
about to play, her rage and indignation knew no bounds; but when the
music fell, and Marion stood mortified, and, as she thought, disgraced
in the eyes of every one, her spirits rose to a most unparalleled
height, and elated and radiant with satisfaction she took her seat at
the piano, and played the Polonaise almost faultlessly; better than she
had ever played it before.

With the exception of Marion, all the pupils acquitted themselves with a
great deal of credit; but for a while her failure seemed to cast a
slight shadow over the evening's enjoyment; for her beauty, and the
heroic manner with which she had borne her disgrace, aggravated as it
was by Miss Stiefbach's very unnecessary rebuke, had won for her the
admiration of all the guests, most of whom were entire strangers to her.

After the close of the musicale, as pupils and guests were mingling
together, and the room was noisy with animated conversation, Miss
Christine went up to Marion, who was standing in a retired corner of the
room talking to M. Béranger, and taking her hand said:--

"Marion, now that we are apparently unobserved I must tell you how sorry
I was that Miss Stiefbach should have spoken so severely to you. I am
sure she was not aware how unkind it seemed; she did not intend to hurt
your feelings, and probably thought from your apparent calmness that you
were really not at all nervous, and that dropping your music was nothing
but carelessness and want of interest."

Marion made no reply, her lips seemed glued together, and Miss Christine
continued:--

"I was surprised that Georgie should have played the Polonaise. I rarely
speak of the faults of one girl to another, and perhaps I ought not now,
but I must say, I did not think I had a scholar who would be so unkind
as to choose a piece she knew one of her companions had chosen."

The rebuke intended for Georgie struck directly home to Marion. She had
been struggling with herself ever since Miss Christine had stood there,
knowing that she ought, before the evening was over, to tell her teacher
the unworthy part she had acted; now every sense of honor and justice
compelled her to do so. But directly beside her stood M. Béranger, and
her pride rebelled at being again disgraced in his eyes, for his
kindness and forbearance, ever since their first lesson, had won for
him her sincere esteem and regard. The struggle was severe, but
momentary, for raising her eyes to Miss Christine, she said:--

"It was a very contemptible thing, Miss Christine; nothing but an
intense desire for revenge could have induced me to select a piece I
knew Georgie had previously chosen."

"You, Marion!" exclaimed Miss Christine; nothing else, just that
exclamation; but the tone of her voice cut Marion more deeply than any
harsh rebuke could have done.

"Yes, Miss Christine, I chose it, knowing that Georgie had practised it
on purpose to play it to-night. I thought as I was to play first I
should be able to disconcert her. I am heartily ashamed of myself; my
disgrace was nothing but what I deserved."

For a moment there was silence. Miss Christine was shocked to find
Marion could have done such a thing. Sarcastic, haughty, disagreeable to
her companions in many ways, she had known her to be, but mean never;
she could not understand it.

If she had known the disgraceful part Georgie had really taken in the
affair; if she had heard of the eaves-dropping of which she had been
guilty in the school-room, to punish which had been quite as great an
inducement for Marion's conduct as a desire for revenge, she would have
felt very differently; but of that Marion said nothing. But Miss
Christine was too kind-hearted, and understood her pupil too well to
speak sternly to her; besides, she knew it must have cost Marion a
severe struggle to exonerate Georgie at the expense of herself, and
doubly so in the presence of M. Béranger. In fact, when the first shock
of surprise had passed off, she felt that the nobleness of Marion's
expiation had atoned for her fault, and she could not help thinking that
there were many girls in the school who would have held their tongues,
and been only too glad to thrust the blame on to one who was so
intensely disagreeable to them.

These thoughts flashed through Miss Christine's mind in a moment, and
holding out her hand, she said in her kindest tones;--

"My dear Marion, I am sure this is the last time you will ever do
anything so unworthy of yourself."

Marion's only reply was a warm pressure of that dear hand, as she turned
and left the room.

"Do you not judge Mlle. Berkley too hasteelie?" whispered M. Béranger.
"There is something behind all this, which you do not yet perceive. I
feel verie sure that Mees Georgie do know more tan she do tell."




CHAPTER XII.

SARAH BROWN SPEAKS HER MIND.


"Now where do you suppose they came from, Marion? I don't know of any
one round here who has a conservatory; they must have come from
Springfield. Who could have sent them?" asked Sarah Brown.

"I'm sure I don't know; aren't they lovely?" replied Marion; "but here
comes Miss Christine,--let's ask her. Miss Christine," she said, turning
round quickly as her teacher entered the room, "who sent you these
lovely flowers yesterday?"

Miss Christine started at the abrupt, point-blank question, and looked a
trifle confused:--

"Why, really, Marion, I--that is,--M. Béranger sent them here; but, as
the box had no address, I presume they were for the benefit of the whole
school. I certainly did not intend to monopolize them."

"No, of course you didn't, you dear old Christian!" exclaimed Marion
with the affectionate familiarity she often used towards her teacher;
"of course you didn't; and as they were meant for all of us, you won't
mind it a bit if I appropriate this little sprig of geranium, and do
just as I've a mind to with it, now will you?"

"No, I don't think I could refuse that, although it does seem a pity to
take it out of water. Why, Marion, what are you going to do with
it?--put it in my hair! No, no, it's too pretty, and it will wither in
such a little while; do take it out!"

"No, I shan't do any such a thing. You gave it to me to do just what I
chose with it, and I _choose_ to have it in your hair; so you must not
take it out."

"No, Miss Christine, don't!" exclaimed Sarah Brown. "You ought to keep
it in, even if it's only to please Marion, for most girls would have
stuck it in their own heads; but she never _says_ anything or _does_
anything like most girls."

"Hold your tongue, Sarah!" peremptorily replied Marion; "you don't know
what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do," replied Sarah, emphasizing every word with a shake of the
head. "I know perfectly well what I am talking about, and you know I
know it, and _I_ know I shan't know it much longer without letting
somebody else know it; so there!"

"Well, Sarah," said Miss Christine, who could not resist joining Marion
in a hearty laugh at Sarah's excited and rather incoherent sentence, "if
you and Marion know what you are talking about, that is certainly more
than I can say, and as it is never polite to allude to a secret in the
presence of a third party. I think I ought to be that somebody else,
whom you are 'to let know it;'" and Miss Christine shook her head in
laughing imitation of Sarah.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing, Miss Christine; it's about Marion's--"

"Sarah Brown, hold your tongue!" cried Marion, at the same time clapping
her hand over Sarah's mouth.

"Marion Berkley, I shan't!" cried Sarah, struggling to free herself, and
gasping out at intervals broken sentences perfectly unintelligible to
Miss Christine; then, as Marion loosed her hold, she shouted: "It's
about Marion's break-down! there!"

"Sarah Brown, you'll be sorry for this!" cried Marion, her eyes flashing
with indignation.

"Sarah! Marion!" exclaimed Miss Christine, looking from one to the
other in utter amazement. "I don't understand you at all; what is this
all about?"

"She doesn't know what she is talking about, and I think she had better
mind her own business!" exclaimed Marion.

"I do know what I'm talking about, and it's just as much my business as
it is any one else's; if it isn't, I'll make it so."

"Girls! girls! you cannot think how you grieve and astonish me. Do you
know how you are talking? Your language is unladylike in the extreme.
But"--turning to Sarah--"even that is not so unpardonable as the
thoughtlessness which could lead you to speak of Marion's failure last
night, when you know it must be extremely unpleasant for her to have it
alluded to in any way."

"Miss Christine, it's too bad for you to speak so to me," cried Sarah,
the tears now streaming down her cheeks, and her voice pitched to its
most excited tones. "You know I just worship Marion, only she won't let
me show it, and I never did an unkind thing to her in my life; but I
told her I should tell about the Polonaise, and so I will; no one shall
stop me!"

"Sarah, you forget to whom you are speaking," quietly replied Miss
Christine, adding as she glanced at Marion, and noticed that she stood
with her lips tightly compressed, "If you have the affection for Marion
which you profess, you will cease to speak of a subject which evidently
annoys her."

"Well, it has no business to annoy her, and I mean to tell every girl in
the school," retorted Sarah, now fairly beside herself; and raising her
voice until she fairly shouted, she called to the girls who were passing
the door, on the way to the library, "Come in here, girls! come in here,
every one of you! Yes, Georgie Graham, you too, I want you all. Now
listen to what I've got to say. You all thought Marion Berkley ought to
have been ashamed of herself to play the Polonaise when she knew Georgie
was going to play it; and you were all glad she broke down, because
almost all of you hate her, and are jealous of her because she's the
handsomest, and the smartest, and the very best girl in the school every
way; and because she doesn't say one thing to your back and another to
your face, the way most of you do; but I'll tell you why she played it.
She played it because that creature there--" pointing her finger at
Georgie, who happened to be the central figure in the group of
astonished listeners--"because that girl was in the anteroom
_listening_, _eaves-dropping_, as she always is, and knew all about the
musicale two weeks before any of us, and practised, and practised, by
stealth, just for no other reason than to show off before company, and
put Marion in the shade; and Marion played it just to punish Georgie for
that and fifty other mean things she's done. I suppose you think it was
hateful in Marion; but _I_ don't; I only just wish that for once she'd
had a little of Georgie's _brass_,--for _she's_ got enough for every
girl in the school,--and then she wouldn't have broken down. But I
haven't done yet," exclaimed the excited girl, after stopping to take
breath, "I haven't done yet; when Miss Christine told Marion how sorry
she was that Georgie should have played the piece she had chosen, Marion
told her the whole truth up and down. No, not the whole truth. She never
told about Georgie's listening to Miss Stiefbach; no, not a word! She
just told her she deserved to break down herself for having treated
Georgie so unkindly; and there aren't a dozen girls in the school but
what would have told on another to save herself. Now, who do you think
was the mean one, I should like to know?" and Sarah glanced round the
room with an air of triumph; then as suddenly changing her expression
to one of contempt, she exclaimed, "You needn't say anything. I know you
think just as Marion does, that I've been meddling in business that does
not concern me; but I don't care _that_ for one of you;" and, snapping
her fingers in the air, Sarah sat down in the nearest chair, completely
exhausted by her harangue.

"Young ladies! young ladies! what is the meaning of this noise?"
exclaimed Miss Stiefbach, in utter amazement, as she entered the room by
another door from that around which almost all the scholars were
crowded. "Why are you not at work in the library? Miss Christine,
explain the cause of this excitement."

Miss Christine, who had heretofore been completely overpowered by the
suddenness and volubility of Sarah's outbreak, saw at a glance that
something must be done at once to prevent her from going through the
whole again to Miss Stiefbach; for she dreaded the effect it might have
upon her sister, knowing that she would look upon the matter from her
cold, calculating point of view, and probably punish Sarah severely for
her disrespectful conduct, utterly ignoring the generous impulses which
had led to it. As for Georgie, when she hastily glanced at her, and saw
her usually haughty head hanging in shame and confusion, she felt that
for the present at least her punishment was sufficiently severe. So
stepping forward and laying her hand on Sarah's shoulder, at the same
time placing herself almost directly in front of her, she turned to Miss
Stiefbach and said:--

"Sarah has been rather disrespectful to me; but I do not think she was
intentionally rude. I shall have to send her to her own room to do her
mending by herself. The rest of the young ladies must go at once to the
library, and I will be with them, directly."

Miss Stiefbach made no reply, although it did not escape her keen eye
that more had been going on than she was made aware of; but she knew by
previous experience that there were times when Miss Christine's judgment
was wiser than her own. She turned towards the door, and with a
commanding gesture waved the girls out. Marion hesitated, and would have
held back, but Miss Stiefbach coldly remarked:--

"Marion, unless you, too, are in disgrace, you will please leave the
room;" and motioning her to lead the way sailed out of the parlor.

The instant they were gone Sarah threw her arms around her teacher's
neck and sobbed aloud.

"I could not help it, Sarah; indeed I could not," said Miss Christine
with a troubled voice as she stroked her pupil's hair; "it certainly was
very wrong of you to behave so, and if I had not sent you to your room I
should have had to tell Miss Stiefbach all about it, and I am afraid she
would have punished you more severely than I have."

"It isn't that, Miss Christine, it isn't that," sobbed Sarah. "I'd a
great deal rather go to my room; and you knew it when you sent me there.
It's about Marion; she said she'd never speak to me again if I told; she
didn't know I knew about it until this morning."

"Well, how did you know it, dear; did any one tell you?"

"No, and I wasn't listening either," exclaimed Sarah, raising her
flushed face; "but several of us knew how Georgie found out about the
musicale, and I noticed, just as Marion did, how much she had practised
the Polonaise, and last night I heard her tell one of the girls she was
glad Marion broke down, it just _did her good_; and I determined then
I'd pay her for it. I was standing very near you, though you did not
know it, when Marion told you all about it last night, and I thought it
was outrageous that she should bear all the blame; and before M.
Béranger too! It was a shame! But oh, dear, Miss Christine, it hasn't
done a bit of good! She'll just hate me now, I know she will, for she
almost made me promise not to tell."

"I cannot say I quite approve of your method of doing Marion justice,
but I hardly think she will be very severe to such a disinterested
little champion," said Miss Christine, who could not help smiling at the
utter wretchedness of Sarah's tone; "however, here she comes to speak
for herself."

"O Miss Christine, do come in there! I made an excuse to get me some
darning-cotton; but Miss Stiefbach's reading the most stupid book of
sermons; do come in and take her place! What!" as she caught sight of
Sarah, "is she here yet?"

"Yes, Marion, she is here, and is making herself perfectly miserable,
because she believes she has made you an enemy for life. Don't you think
you can convince her of the contrary?"

"O Marion!" sobbed Sarah, "please don't be mad with me, for I really
could not help it. I thought I was doing it all for your good, and when
I got started I _could_ not stop till I had it all out."

"You little bit of a goose! did you really think I was going to be angry
with you after making such a thrilling stump-speech in my favor?" and
throwing herself on her knees beside Sarah's chair, Marion looked up at
her with a smiling face, but with eyes not undimmed by tears.

"And you really think I did it from kindness?"

"Yes, I certainly do!"

"And you won't snub me any more?" cried Sarah, giving Marion a
passionate kiss.

"Oh, I can't promise you that," laughed Marion; "a little, healthy
snub, now and then, does you good, and I shouldn't be doing my duty if I
didn't give it to you, but"--and her voice assumed the tender,
affectionate tone so rarely heard by her school-mates, and which touched
Sarah even more than her words--"I shall never be really unkind to you
again, and I promise to love you as much as you wish."

"You really mean it, Marion? You really mean that you will love me?"

"Yes, I really mean it. Miss Christine shall be my witness that I have
this day gained a friend."

"Yes, my dear," answered Miss Christine, who had been a silent but
interested observer of this little scene: "and a truer one I do not
think you could have."




CHAPTER XIII.

THE WANDERER RETURNS.


For several days the musicale, and the events connected with it, formed
the subjects of general conversation. At first Sarah's remarkable
address to her school-mates appeared likely to have a contrary effect
from that which she desired, being calculated to make Marion more
disliked than ever by those to whom she had been held up by her zealous
little champion as superior to themselves in every way.

But Sarah, despite her quick temper, was a great favorite in the school,
for her warm heart and generous nature made her as ready to do any one a
kindness as she was to fly into a passion. She always spoke the truth,
and if she unintentionally wounded or even annoyed one of her companions
she was ever ready to make reparation. Perhaps many of them felt the
truth of her remarks, and thought that in this case silence was their
only safeguard.

Miss Christine had spoken privately to the older scholars, entreating
them not to harbor any ill-will towards either of the three immediately
concerned, and so the matter was passed quietly over, and that which in
many instances could have had nothing but evil results seemed likely in
this one to be productive of good; for Marion, fearing that she had been
the means of depriving Sarah of some of her warmest friends, almost
unconsciously assumed a different bearing towards all her companions,
and for her new friend's sake exhibited an interest in persons and
things about her which she had heretofore treated with supreme
indifference. And so the days wore on, and Thanksgiving was rapidly
approaching. None of the girls who lived at a distance were going home
this year, and the house was filled with lamentations, and half-stifled
fears lest certain boxes should fail to make their appearance.

Marion had as yet received no definite news from her mother regarding
Jemima Dobbs, and her heart was filled with disappointment when she
thought of the lonely Thanksgiving they were likely to have at the
farm-house in place of the bright and happy one she had pictured to
herself.

She was sitting in her window one morning thinking of Aunt Bettie, when
her door suddenly opened, a voice cried, "Look out for your head!" and a
thick letter was shot into her lap. She caught it eagerly, not stopping
to think whose was the unerring hand that had so accurately hit its
mark, and tearing off the envelope in true school-girl fashion, she
glanced rapidly along the pages, when her eyes were caught with the
words: "Jemima will be at the B---- station Wednesday, when the seven
o'clock train arrives; be sure and have some one there to meet her."
With a cry of delight Marion ran to the door to call Florence, and was
met by that young woman at the head of the stairs. She received the
happy tidings as enthusiastically as Marion could possibly wish, and
going back to their room, and seating themselves in their usual window,
Marion read the letter aloud:--

     "BOSTON, Nov. 24th.

     "MY DEAR DAUGHTER:--Papa has just gone down town; Fred is at
     school; and Charley radiantly happy in the possession of a new
     mechanical toy, which I expect will be demolished in a few moments,
     as that young gentleman is developing a surprising fancy for
     inquiring into the 'why and wherefore' of everything he takes hold
     of. As everything seems to promise a quiet time for me, I think I
     will devote myself to you, as I have quite a long story to tell
     you.

     "I know you have been very much disappointed that my recent
     letters have contained no news of your protégé; but I am in hopes
     that this one will put all your anxiety to rest, and quite equal
     your most ardent expectations.

     "After waiting some time, Mrs. Benson received a letter from the
     lady in Charlestown, with whom the girl calling herself Arabella
     Dobbs has gone to live, in which she wrote that Arabella had stayed
     with her three weeks, but had left, thinking she could find work in
     some wholesale clothing establishment, that would prove more
     profitable than living out.

     "The lady also voluntarily wrote, that she had every reason to
     think the girl was living under an assumed name, as she had
     repeatedly answered questions directed to the cook, whose name was
     Jemima, and seemed very much confused, when after doing so several
     times, remarks were made, and excused herself by saying that her
     mother used to call her Jemima 'just for fun.'

     "Of course we were not much longer in doubt as to the identity of
     Miss Arabella, but we were, if possible, wider from the mark than
     ever, for we had not the most remote idea to what clothing
     establishment she had gone, and there being several in the city, it
     did not seem very probable that without much difficulty we should
     be able to find the right one. While I stood talking with Mrs.
     Benson, as she was looking over the directory, a girl came up to
     the desk. I moved aside that she might more easily speak to Mrs.
     Benson, and she asked in a weak, tired voice, 'Any letters for me,
     ma'am?'--'What name?' demanded Mrs. Benson, running her finger down
     the column of the book, and not raising her eyes. 'Arabella Dobbs,'
     replied the servant-girl.

     "Up jumped Mrs. Benson, slamming the covers of the directory
     together with a report like a pistol, while I turned, equally
     unable to conceal my astonishment, and looked at the girl as if she
     had been a ghost. As you may imagine, such a proceeding could not
     be very agreeable to the poor thing, and she looked from one to the
     other with a bewildered, half-frightened expression.

     "I must say at my first glance I was not favorably impressed with
     her. I had looked for a round-faced, good-natured-looking country
     girl; perhaps a trifle 'airy' after her short experience of city
     life; but I saw a thin, angular face and figure, the hair drawn
     tightly off her forehead up to the very top of her head, and done
     in an immense waterfall; a little, round hat tipped forward, the
     brim just reaching her forehead, across which lay a row of
     corkscrew curls; her dress, which had originally been a good,
     serviceable delaine, but was now so soiled as to almost defy
     description, was looped up and puckered into a great bunch behind,
     in imitation of the panniers worn by the fashionable young ladies
     of the day. All this I took in at a glance, and confess to being
     rather disgusted with the young woman; but when I looked carefully
     at her face all such uncharitable feelings vanished, for it bore
     the marks of recent illness and real distress.

     "Do not think, my dear Mab, that I kept the poor creature standing
     as long as it has taken me to write all this; my thoughts flew much
     faster than my pen ever can. I went up to her, and putting out my
     hand said, before Mrs. Benson could recover from her surprise,
     "Jemima, I believe there are no letters for you now, but I can tell
     you about your dear mother, who is very, very lonely without her
     daughter."

     "It is useless to give you an account of our conversation, for I
    

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