Chapter VIII: Marian's Sunshine

"AUNT GRETA," said Marian, putting her head in at the dining-room door.

"She isn't here," said Charlie, looking up from the floor, where he was building bricks with Sydney; "I think she went into the drawing-room."

The drawing-room was across the narrow passage, and looked out as the dining-room did on the little front garden, and thence to the lane. But Courtenay in his alterations had thrown out a bay window at the side, commanding a view, first of the pretty lawn belonging to the cottage, and then of sloping fields down to the bottom of the valley.

Marian found her aunt sitting at this window with the rays of the western sun falling on her rippling brown hair—a beautiful picture she thought in her quiet little heart.

"Aunt Greta, shall you not be cold in here?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear; the sun makes it warm."

The tone was dejected. Marian recognised it in a moment.

"There is a fire in the other room."

"The children's bricks make such a noise; I thought I should be quieter here."

"So you will be, but I must get you something."

She ran off, and in a moment brought a Shetland shawl, warm and light, which her aunt generally used in the garden.

"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Chantry; "I could not find it."

"Lie down on the sofa, and I will tuck you up, auntie."

"Oh, no, dear!" answered Mrs. Chantry, rousing herself. "I must go and see after the little ones, only my head felt all in a whirl."

"I shall go in there directly. There is no need for you to move for ever so long. I am afraid the children being turned out for Lionel has come very hard on you, Aunt Greta."

"My head is not so very strong," answered Mrs. Chantry apologetically. "You see, Marian, Salome generally takes every care away from me with regard to them."

"Yes," said Marian. "Salome says, 'I got no head like de dear missus; I just as strong as can be.'"

Mrs. Chantry smiled, but soon looked sorrowful again.

"Now, auntie," said Marian, "you do as I say. Lay yourself on this sofa, and I will come back in five minutes. And if you are not asleep, which you ought to be, I'll 'report progress,' and tell you how your three bairns are getting on."

Mrs. Chantry's eyes filled with tears. Marian did not appear to see them, but covered her aunt up, and with a kiss left her.

She hurried to the kitchen, which was out at the back under the nursery, and gave a direction to the little maid, and then hastened to the children in the dining-room.

"I've got nothing to do, Marian," said Ruth, coming to her, and rubbing up against her like a little kitten. "I will see what we can find, Ruthie."

"It's so dark with these blinds down. Does it do dear Claude any good to have the blinds down?"

"No, dearie, not the least; it's because of other people we pull them down."

"I don't see that it does other people any good either," said Ruth.

"Lest they should think we forget," said Marian gently. "But look here, Ruthie, I can put this blind so that you can see nicely. There, how does that do?"

"Very much better," answered Ruth. "Now I want something to do."

"I can see beautiful now," said Sydney. "Marian, I'm glad you've come to stay."

"So am I," said Ruth; "we've got no big sister."

She was searching in her aunt's basket for a pair of scissors.

"Now, Ruthie, sit up to the table, and cut this letter-paper into strips. Look here, about half an inch wide, and curl them so with this paper-knife, or with one edge of the scissors. I'll teach you to make a cushion."

"A cushion!" echoed Charlie, getting up from his knees.

"Yes; and you, too, if you could find some more paper."

"There is some here. Mother put these sheets by for Ruth to make spills of."

"I'm tired of making spills," said Ruth, fearing she should be set to that task again. "I'd rather make a cushion."

"Of course you would," said Marian, smiling, "because we always like to do something fresh."

"I'm going to build a 'very' high castle," said Sydney, "as high as this table."

"Very well, do, dear," answered Marian. "Charlie, have an eye on him while I do something for Aunt Greta, will you? And see that he comes to no harm."

Charlie nodded. "Isn't mother well, Marian?"

"She is tired—and sad, I think," added Marian with a little break in her voice; for she had lost her own favourite brother that day, and her own heart was very sad too.

"Yes," answered Charlie, quite comprehending; "and besides it's very tiring having these children down all day long. It's different to have me, because I employ myself if she's busy, but Ruth keeps on all the time, 'Mother, mother, dear."

"I don't," said Ruth, looking aggrieved.

"Well," interposed Marian, "you must all be as thoughtful as you can. Ruth will be pleased to show auntie a box full of paper curls, shall you not, Ruthie?"

Ruth was in the act of curling a particularly hard one, and was too busy to answer. So with another glance to Charlie to be careful of his little brother, Marian left them, and ran back to the kitchen.

"Is it ready, Molly?"

"Yes, miss," answered the little maid, delighted with her own promptness. "Don't you think I've been quick, miss?"

"Indeed you have, and you've cut that bread and butter very nicely too, Molly. Thank you."

She went off with the tray, leaving Molly smiling. Her aunt was not asleep, but lay quietly looking at the sunset. She turned round on Marian's entrance.

"Here's a cup of tea for someone," said Marian, "for someone who did not eat half a dozen mouthfuls when the others had theirs."

"My dear, you are very thoughtful, but—"

"Now, Aunt Greta, just try this cup. Is not that refreshing?"

"Very refreshing."

"And is not this glorious sunset refreshing?"

Mrs. Chantry did not answer to that; she looked at it for a moment, and then her eyes turned to her cup.

"It makes me think of my little ones whom I lost in India," she said at last.

"I should like it to remind me of seeing them again," answered Marian softly.

"And then I think of your dear mother, Marian, and know she is passing through what I did then, and that makes me sorrowful."

Marian had much ado to go on quietly, but she resolutely gulped down her tears and whispered, for she could not force her voice to its usual tone: "But she is comforted; she did say so this morning when she saw Uncle Chantry. Aunt Greta, dear, do try to let in the sunshine into your heart."

Mrs. Chantry was silent, and then after a while, she said tenderly, turning round to kiss the soft, round cheek which was bending so near her:

"Marian, darling, tell me, what has made you so peaceful to-day?"

"Just this, auntie: that He knows best. I'm so satisfied that He is doing right for us all that I feel lifted above all the difficulties and turmoil, and am resting in His presence."

Marian said it very humbly. If it had not been that she saw her aunt in such great need of comfort, she would never have said so much.

"It is the 'meek' who shall inherit the earth," said Mrs. Chantry musingly. "When we are willing, He can work. It is the unwilling who hinder."

"Do you not remember," pursued Marian, "how we felt everything was wrong when dear Claude got ill, and we had to come and fill up your house, auntie?"

"Well, dear."

"And then came Lionel's accident, and then it seemed worse than ever, and yet all the time God was working round for the very best for us. He was teaching us lessons we could never have learned in prosperity."

"What lessons have you learned, darling?"

"I had to learn to give up my own will about being at home to help mother," said Marian, her voice quivering as she thought of all it had cost her.

"And you did?"

"Yes, auntie; He helped me. And then when I thought it was all wrong about Lionel, He's turned it all round till it's the very best that could be."

"How do you mean, darling?" Mrs. Chantry raised her eyes to the glowing face.

"Salome says that there's joy in the presence of the angels of God over him, and we know what that means, auntie. Isn't that enough to lift us above the clouds?"

"Indeed, it is darling. I have been very wrong to be so desponding."

"You are tired and overdone, auntie. Now will you let me put those two little ones to bed, and you lie still for an hour? By that time, you will feel better I hope, and uncle will be in from the garden."

She kissed her aunt once more, and left her alone.

Mrs. Chantry put down her cup and wept excessively for a few minutes. She wanted to be willing to be led, but she felt as if she could not make herself willing. Then those words stole over her with their healing balm—

"'Come unto "Me" . . . I will give you rest . . . learn of "Me:" for
I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"

"Yes, it is the meek," she murmured, "those who learn of Him, who shall inherit all things. It is the meek who shall be satisfied with His goodness; it is the meek who leave all in His hands, who receive in return 'exceeding abundantly above all that they can ask or think.'"

Before the hour was over, she felt she had been strengthened with a new strength. And when she heard the little footsteps cease to patter overhead, she rose up and went into the other room. Charlie was lighting the lamp and setting the room in order.

"Mother, Marian is putting the little ones to bed. Salome says Lionel will soon be well enough to sleep in Alick's room, and then the children can go back to the nursery; she's been in saying so to Marian."

"I am very glad of that; I shall go up now to wish them good-night."

"Are you more rested, mother?" he asked wistfully.

"God has rested me," she answered softly.

She went first to the children, and after she had heard all about the paper cushion, and how kind Marian was, and had said their evening prayer with them, she went to the nursery and tapped at the door.

"Come in," said Alick. "Oh, mother, is it you? I was just going down."

"I shall follow you in a minute." Then, advancing into the room, she went over to Lionel's side.

"My dear boy, I have not been to see you to-day because I did not want to make you increasingly sad with my sadness, but I feel better now. There is such a thing, Lionel, as finding a hand come down from the skies, which lifts a burden under which you are fainting right off your shoulders. It is so with many sorts of burdens; and as you walk along the path towards the heavenly home, you will find it so over and over again. When we will let Him help us, He can; but while we think it too hard for Him, He has to let us find out that it is only too hard for us."

She kissed him warmly. "It has done me worlds of good to think He has been seeking you, dear."

"It's more than seeking, auntie," he said gently.

And she understood and gave a bright smile in return.

"Now, missis, my dear, Master Lionel has had quite enough talkin' for one night. To-morrow, if de dear Lord is willin', he's going to get up, and the child'en is coming back 'gain in here. I shall be mighty glad 'see my child'en."

"I'm a dreadful bother," said Lionel.

"You not talk like that, dearie," she answered. "You've been nothin' but pleasure to me; but, all 'same for that, I'll be mighty glad to have my child'en back."