Chapter II: Part 2

"You see, my dears," began Marian, "I am going to have a great deal to do, almost as much as grandma has with her clubs and societies and meetings. First there is school. I think I like Alice Evans the best of the girls, for she has such pretty hair, but I am not quite sure about it. She was not quite as nice to me at recess as Ruth was, so maybe I shall like Ruth best. I am sure I shall love Patty. I wish she had come here with her sister. It must be lovely, Tippy, to have a sister, though I suppose you don't think as I do, for you had a sister once and now you don't care anything about her, for you fizzed at her the other day when she came in our garden. I saw you and heard you, too, and I was very much shocked. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, about so much to do. I'll have lessons to study at home after this, I suppose. We didn't have any real lessons to-day, just trial things, and I did such awful--I mean really awful writing on the blackboard that the girls all giggled. I just hated that, and I felt like crying or like running away and never going back, but I realized that it wouldn't do to do either, so that is another thing I must do.

"I must practice writing at home. I wonder where I shall get paper and things to do it on. I'll have to ask Miss Dorothy about that. She is such a dear, Tippy, and she likes cats; she said so. I never used to think that any one could be as nice as Mrs. Hunt, but Miss Dorothy is nicer in some ways, for she understands just how you feel about everything, and Mrs. Hunt doesn't always. She is as kind as can be, but she thinks that when you ask questions if she answers with a cookie or a doughnut you will be satisfied. It does satisfy your mouth, of course, but it doesn't satisfy the thinking part of you. Sometimes I go down there just bursting with things I want to know, and when I ask her, she says: 'Oh, don't bother your little head about such things; there is a plate of cakes in the pantry; go help yourself.' Now, Miss Dorothy isn't that way at all. She just reaches her thinks down to yours and they go along together till you come out all clear and straight like coming out of the woods into an open sunshiny place where there is a good path.

"Now, Tippy, we've got to think of something to send papa for a present. I don't suppose you are interested in such things, but I think every one ought to be. Maybe Patty can help me out. She must be a very bright child; Miss Dorothy says she is. There! I hear Heppy clattering the milk-pan; it is time to see about your supper." So saying, Marian put down the two cats and started for the house, her pets following at her heels, knowing the sound of a milk-pan as well as she.

_CHAPTER IV_

_Companions_

The first week of school passed very rapidly, and by the time Friday afternoon came, Marian felt quite at home with her schoolmates. She had finally decided that Ruth would be her best friend next to Patty, whom she always held in reserve as filling her needs exactly, when they should meet. Miss Dorothy had written to her little sister and Marian was daily expecting a letter herself from Patty, a letter which should mark the beginning of their friendship. She was rather shy of the girls at first, for she had scarcely known childish comrades, and her old-fashioned ideas and mature way of speaking often brought a laugh from the others, but her shyness soon wore off and she quickly acquired a style of speech at which her grandparents sometimes frowned, for it included some bits of slang which had never found their way into the brick house before.

It was Miss Dorothy's doing which made the way easier for the little girl, for she argued nobly in behalf of Marian's needing young companions to keep her like a normal child. She even appealed to the family doctor who promptly sided with her, and maintained that Marian would be better bodily, if she lived a more rough and tumble life. So, because her grandparents really did care for her, absorbed as they were in their grown-up affairs, Marian was allowed more freedom than ever before and was ready to take advantage of it.

Miss Dorothy had gone up to town to do some shopping this first Saturday of the term, and Marian bethought herself of its being baking day at Mrs. Hunt's, so, as this was always one place she could always go without asking permission, she simply stopped at the sitting-room door and announced: "I am going down to Mrs. Hunt's, grandma."

Mrs. Otway, at work upon a financial report, did not look up from her columns of figures, but merely nodded in reply and Marian ran on down the street between the double rows of trees, till she came to Mrs. Hunt's. This time it was the odor of baking which greeted her as she advanced toward the kitchen, and Mrs. Hunt was in the act of taking a pan of nicely browned cookies from the oven as her visitor appeared.

"Well, well, well," she exclaimed. "Just in time. Seems to me school keeps some folks amazingly busy. I've not seen you for a week, have I? But there, I'm glad enough you're turned out at last. Let me see how you look. School agrees with you; I can see that. Sit down there on the step and eat a cookie; it's warm inside the kitchen with the fire going. Now tell me all about it. How do you like Miss Robbins? I hear she's liable to be as popular as any teacher we've had. How do the grans take to her?" Marian and Mrs. Hunt always spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Otway as the grans.

"They like her," returned Marian between bites of cookie. "She is perfectly fine, Mrs. Hunt, and she's got a little sister just my age; her name's Martha, but they call her Patty, and she's going to write to me, and, oh, Mrs. Hunt, I have a secret to tell you, but you mustn't breathe it. Cross your heart you won't."

"Cross your heart," repeated Mrs. Hunt. "Where did you get that? I never heard you say that before."

"All the girls say it."

"Of course they do, and you're getting to be one of the girls, I see. Well, I'm glad of it. And what's the mighty secret?"

"You won't tell?"

"Not I." Mrs. Hunt emphasized her promise by bringing down her cake-cutter firmly on the dough she had spread on the board before her.

"Well, it's this: I'm learning to write on the typewriter, and I'm going to write a letter to papa myself."

"Well, I vow to man! Isn't that a trick worth knowing? Won't he be pleased?"

"Do you think he really will? I didn't know, for you see he has written to me only once a year just as he does to grandpa and grandma, and I have never been sure that he really cared very much about me."

"Listen to the child," exclaimed Mrs. Hunt, shaking her head. "Who'd have thought she gave it any thought one way or the other. Don't you believe that he doesn't care. I knew Ralph Otway before you were born, and I can tell you that when he gets to knowing that you've thought enough about him to want to write to him he will write to you often enough. He's got it into his head that you are as well off not hearing from him oftener, and besides he feels that as a lone widower he can't take as good care of you as his mother, a woman, can do, and he's just steeled his heart to endure what he thinks is best for you without thinking of what he would like for himself. Don't you suppose he would a thousand times rather have you with him than to live off there by himself?"

"No, I didn't think so," replied Marian, with the idea that somehow she had said something she ought not. "But, Mrs. Hunt, if he does care, why doesn't he come over and get me?"

"Just as I told you; because he thinks you are better off here with your kith and kin. What would you do all day alone, with him off at his business and you by yourself in lodgings or a boarding-house, I'd like to know. He wouldn't want to send you to boarding-school, for then you'd not be so well off as where you are. Oh, no, don't you be getting it into your head that your father doesn't care for you." Mrs. Hunt made decided plunges at the yellow dough at each attack leaving behind a scalloped circle. "How I talk," she said as she deftly lifted the cookies into a pan, "but my tongue runs away with me sometimes. When do you think you'll be smart enough to get that letter off?"

"Oh, in another week, perhaps. Miss Dorothy thinks I will."

"Humph! that's quick enough work. Here, don't you want to go down into the garden and get me a few tomatoes? I thought I'd stew some for dinner, and I can't leave my baking very well."

This was something Marian always liked to do, so she took the little round basket Mrs. Hunt handed her and was soon very busy among the tomato vines. She was watching a big yellow butterfly bury itself in an opening flower when she heard a voice on the other side of the fence, say: "Hello!" and looking up she saw Marjorie Stone and Alice Evans smiling at her.

"What are you doing?" asked Marjorie. "I didn't know you lived here."

"I don't," said Marian going toward her. "I just came to see Mrs. Hunt and I am getting some tomatoes for her. Most everything else has gone. There used to be lovely currants and raspberries over there, and there were a few blackberries."

"We know where there are some blackberries still, don't we, Alice?" said Marjorie.

"Yes, they have ripened late; they're not so very big, but we are going to get them. We're going to take our lunch with us and gather all we can find."

"If you bring some lunch you can go too," said Marjorie amiably to Marian.

"Oh, is it a picnic?"

"Just a little one. Three or four of us were going, but two of the girls can't go. One has to stay at home and take care of the baby, and the other has gone to town with her mother, but maybe Alice's big sister, Stella, will go with us."

"Is it very far?"

"Not so very. We've often been there. You go get your lunch and put it in a tin bucket, or a basket, so you will have something to carry your blackberries home in. We'll wait here for you if you hurry."

Much excited, Marian ran back to the house. This came of having schoolmates. A picnic this very first Saturday, and the blackberrying thrown in. She set down the little basket on the kitchen table and exclaimed, "Oh, Mrs. Hunt, what do you think? Marjorie Stone and Alice Evans want me to go on a picnic with them. They're going blackberrying and it isn't very far, but I'll have to take my lunch in something to gather the blackberries in, and----" She paused for breath.

"Just those two going?"

"No, Alice's big sister, Stella, is going."

"Oh!" Mrs. Hunt nodded her head in a satisfied way.

"Do you think I would have time to go home?" Marian asked anxiously. "They said they were in a great hurry."

"What is the use of your going home? I can put you up a little lunch easy as not. Here's these cookies, and I've baked turnovers, too. There's a basket of nice good apples in the pantry; you can have one of those, and I'll whisk together some sandwiches in the shake of a sheep's tail."

"Oh, that would be perfectly fine. Do you think grandma would mind?"

"She oughtn't to. She's done the same thing lots of times herself."

"Oh!" This fact certainly set things all right, for surely no grown person could be so absolutely unjust and inconsistent as to blame a child for doing what she had done, not once, but often herself. So Marian was quite assured, and smilingly watched Mrs. Hunt's kind hands pack a lunch for her.

"There now," said the good woman when she had tucked a red napkin over the top of the basket. "Run along and have a good time. I guess all the quarts of blackberries you get won't make many jars of jam, but you'll have just as much fun. If I get the chance I'll run up to your grandma's or send word that you won't be home to dinner. Maybe I'll see your grandpa as he comes back from the post-office."

And so, well content, Marian sped forth to join the girls who were waiting.

"Are you going?" they asked. "You didn't have to go home, did you?"

"No, Mrs. Hunt put up a lunch for me. She is always so very kind."

"What have you got?" asked Marjorie eagerly.

"Three sandwiches, ham ones, and six cookies, two turnovers and an apple." Marian enumerated the articles with pride.

"I guess that will be enough," said Marjorie, condescendingly. "But you will have to cut the turnovers in two so they will go around; we haven't any, you know."

Marian felt somewhat abashed, and thought that Marjorie was not very polite. She would not have inquired into the contents of their lunch baskets for the world. However, she trotted along very contentedly till they reached Alice's home where Stella was to join them. "I found some crackers and cheese, and there are two slices of bread and jam," announced this older girl as she came out. "I think perhaps we can find an apple tree along the way. Did you bring anything, Marjorie?"

"Yes, I have something in here." Marjorie swung her tin bucket in air.

"Then we'd better start," continued Stella. "Who is that with you? Oh, I see, it is Marian Otway. Hello, Marian."

"How do you do?" said Marian. She had never seen Stella except from across the church. She considered her quite a young lady, although she was only fourteen, but she was tall for her age and had an assured air.

The weather was warm, as it often is in early September, and as they trudged along the dusty road with the noonday sun beating down upon them, Marian thought it was anything but fun. Stella, however, kept encouraging them all by telling them it was only a little further, and that when they came to a certain big tree they would sit down and eat their lunch. The tree seemed a long way off, but at length it was reached, and the four sat down to rest under its shade.

"Oh, I do wish I had a drink," sighed Alice. "I am so thirsty."

"So am I," exclaimed the others.

"Maybe there is a spring near," said Stella. "There is a house over yonder; perhaps they could let us have some milk."

"But we haven't any money to pay for it," said Alice.

"So we haven't. Well, we'll have to ask for water. It was very stupid to think of only being hungry and not of being thirsty. We could have brought some milk as well as not. Let us have your tin bucket, Marjorie, and you and Alice go over and ask for some water."

"I'm too tired," complained Marjorie. "If I lend you my bucket I think some one else ought to go for the water."

"Oh, all right," said Stella with a disdainful smile. "I am sure Marian will be accommodating enough to go with Alice, although you have walked no further than they did. You will go, won't you, Marian?"

At this direct appeal, Marian could not refuse to go, and arose with alacrity to do Stella's bidding.

"Empty your bucket into my basket," said Stella to Marjorie, at the same time taking off the lid. Marjorie made a dive into the bucket and hastily secured a small package wrapped in paper, consenting to Stella's putting the two biscuits and the one banana that remained, into her basket.

"Don't begin to eat till we come back," called Alice as she and Marian started off.

"We won't," promised her sister.

The way through the open field was quite as hot, if not as dusty as the road, and Marian agreed with Alice that it was harder to walk through the stubble than the dust, so they were glad enough to reach the shade of the trees surrounding the little farmhouse. A woman was scouring tins on the back porch.

"Could we have some water from your pump?" asked Alice timidly.

The woman looked up. "Why, yes, and welcome. Where did you drop from? I ain't seen any carriage come up the road."

"We walked from Greenville," Alice told her.

"All the way this warm day? Well, I should think you would want water. You two didn't come by yourselves, did you?"

"No, my sister and another girl are over there by that big chestnut tree."

"Lands! then why didn't you go to the spring? 'T ain't but a step, just a ways beyond the tree down in that little hollow. I think the water's better and colder than the pump water, but you can have either you like. Perhaps, though, you'd like a glass of milk. But there, you just wait, I know something better than that. Just set down and cool off while I fetch something for you to take back. Don't take a drink till you set awhile; you're all overheated."

"What do you suppose she's going to give us?" whispered Alice.

Marian shook her head. "I'd like water better than anything, but she said we'd best wait and I'm going to."

"Then I will," said Alice, not to be outdone.

Presently the woman returned with a pitcher upon which stood cool beads of moisture, while the clinking sound of ice from within suggested deliciousness to the thirsty. Setting down a glass the woman poured something into it, and then handed the glass to Marian who politely offered it to Alice. It was quickly accepted and Alice took a satisfying draught. "It is lemonade," she said, "and it is, oh, so good. I never tasted anything so good."

The woman laughed. "You never were more thirsty, maybe. Take your time; I'll get another glass." She stepped inside to supply Marian with the same treat. "I'll pour the rest into your pail," she said; "it will go good with your lunch. I made a whole bucketful this morning thinking maybe my husband's folks might come over for Sunday and would be thirsty after their long drive, but it's too late for 'em now. They always start by sunup and get here before dinner. They won't be here this week, so you come in for what they don't."

"I'm glad they didn't come," said Alice setting down her glass.

The woman laughed. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, they say. Here's your pail; there's ice enough to keep it cool for some time."

"Thank you so very, very much," said Marian earnestly. "If I get enough blackberries I'll surely bring you some."

"Bless the child! You needn't, for I have had all I need, and have put 'em up till I'm sick of the sight of 'em. Keep all you get and I'm sure you're welcome; their time is about over and what you get won't be worth much. I'm sure you're welcome to your drink." She fell to scouring again, and the girls departed bearing the bucket carefully.

"Wasn't she kind?" said Marian, in grateful remembrance, "and isn't it nice to know about the spring?"

"Be careful," cried Alice in alarm, for just here Marian struck her foot against a stubbly growth and came near falling, but recovered her footing.

"Let me take it," said Alice, grasping the handle of the bucket.

"I'm sure I shall be glad if you will," replied Marian in a relieved tone, "it would be too dreadful to spill any of that delicious stuff."

However it was borne safely the rest of the way, and it is needless to say that it was appreciated by the waiting pair, though Marjorie complained that they had been such a long, long time in getting it.

"I should think it was worth being long to get what we did," said Alice severely.

"Well, anyhow, I think Stella and I ought to have the most," said Marjorie, "for you each had a glassful up at the house and we haven't had any."

"That was to pay us for going, wasn't it?" and Alice appealed to her sister.

"Certainly it was," returned Stella. "If you couldn't have that much after your doing the errand I should think it was a pity."

Then they fell to eating their lunch, although the division of this did not turn out as Marjorie intended, for Stella declared it was only fair that each should eat what she brought for herself, and maintained that Marjorie's biscuits and banana must be her share. Marian protested, however, for she felt that she had the lion's share, and that she would be uncomfortable if she ate her good things without giving so much as a taste to the others. At last it was decided that each child should contribute to the general supply one article from her lunch, so a turnover went from Marian's basket, a biscuit from Marjorie's pail, while Alice and Stella contributed some crackers and cheese and a slice of their bread and jam. No one caring for Marjorie's biscuit it was left untouched while its owner fell upon the turnover without a question. Marian chose the crackers and cheese, but insisted upon exchanging some of her cookies for the slice of bread and jam, and later gave Alice half her apple. The lemonade was quaffed to the last drop, and then Marjorie volunteered to go to the spring for water. She was gone some time, and as they all started forth to find the blackberry patch, Alice whispered to Marian, "She had candy in that package; that's why she wanted to go to the spring alone. I saw her take out the candy and eat it." Then Marian began to realize that her eyes were being opened to other than pleasant things in that outside world of companionship.

_CHAPTER V_

_Blackberries_

Fortunately the blackberry patch was not much further on, and after being refreshed by their luncheon the children did not mind crossing a field and climbing a fence or two. But what a thicket it was! Such thorns and briars as Marian had never imagined. There was a story in verse, in one of the books which had belonged to her grandmother when she was a little girl; this story was about Phebe, the Blackberry Girl, and it was one in which Marian delighted, but never before had she realized to the full extent Phebe's trials; yet, like her, she

"Scratched her face and tore her hair,
But still did not complain,"

and furthermore, like Phebe, when she came to a promising bush, she "picked with all her might," and really had a creditable amount to show when Stella said time was up. But alas, she had other things to show besides blackberries and scratches, for she had worn a frock of light material, and by the time they were ready to leave the thicket, it was in slits and tears all over. Marian had been so excited over her novel employment that she had not seen what damage the briars were doing till Marjorie laughed out: "Oh, what a rag-bag you are!"

Then Marian looked down at the fringe of muslin which hung from her waist, at the stained waist itself, from which the trimming fell in festoons, and she was aghast. "Oh, what shall I do?" she breathed helplessly.

"You certainly do look a sight," said Stella, none too comfortingly, "but I wouldn't mind my clothes so much as my hands; just see how they are all scratched up, and your face isn't much better. You were too reckless; you ought not to have plunged in so far that you got caught in the worst of the brambles; we didn't any of us plunge around so as to get all mixed up that way."

"I know," returned Marian meekly, "I got too excited."

"I should think you did."

"I can't go into town this way," said Marian miserably. "I look like a beggar girl."

"Anybody could see that you had been picking blackberries," said Alice consolingly.

"But with such a looking frock they will laugh at me," said Marian tearfully. "Oh, dear, I wish I had worn something that didn't tear."

"As the rest of us did," remarked Marjorie complacently.

"If you had only been careful and had kept on the edge of the thicket," Stella said, then seeing how distressed Marian really was, she went on: "You might take off your frock; I really think you would look better without than with it."

"Oh!" Marian's cheeks flamed. To appear before the world half-dressed was not to be thought of.

Stella looked her over critically. The frock she wore was a white muslin spotted with pink, too frail a garment for such an expedition.

"The waist isn't so terrible," said Alice examining it. "If we had some pins we could fasten the trimming on so it wouldn't show the tears much."

"Take off your frock, Marian," decided Stella; "I know what we can do."

Marian obeyed the assured voice, and presently Stella was tearing the ragged skirt from the waist, afterward pinning the trimming of the waist in place. "Now come here," she said to Marian.

"What are you going to do?" the others asked in chorus.

"I am going to match your petticoat to your waist," said Stella, addressing Marian. "I will dot it with pink, and it will never be observed. You can wear the waist as it is, and have a skirt to match."

"What are you going to spot it with?" asked Alice curiously.

"You'll see," answered her sister, taking a blackberry from her basket and squeezing a little of the juice on Marian's petticoat. "It isn't exactly the color, but it is near enough, and will never be noticed unless you were very near. Now stand quite still, Marian."

The little girl obeyed and after some time Stella finished her work. "There!" she exclaimed with her head to one side to notice the effect; "that is not bad at all. Walk off, Marian, and let me see; the spots aren't quite even, but then, as Mrs. Hunt says, 'they will never be seen on a galloping horse.'"

"I am sure they look very well," remarked Alice admiringly, "and I think you were very clever to think of it, Stella." And Marian, though still a little shamefaced, felt more at ease.

"We'd better start back," said Stella, "for the afternoons are not so very long now, and we have quite a distance to go."

"If we didn't have blackberries in the two buckets we might get some of that nice cold water from the spring and carry it with us," said Alice, "and then if we were thirsty we should have something to drink."

"It wouldn't be a bad plan," agreed Stella. "I'll tell you what we can do: Marjorie can pour her berries in our bucket and we can use hers for the water. Our bucket is so big that it will easily hold ours and hers, too."

"I'd like to see me do it," spoke up Marjorie. "I'd be sure not to get back as many as I put in."

Stella curled her lip and lifted her eyebrows scornfully. "You needn't be afraid," she said; "nobody wants one of your old berries. If you are so particular, it is very easy to separate them by putting a layer of leaves on top of ours, and yours on top of that, and then there will be no mixing, and _we_ shall be sure to get all that belongs to _us_."

Marjorie agreed to this arrangement, being quite ready to have a supply of water on hand, and so Stella carefully arranged the berries and said she would carry the bucket herself and that Marjorie and Alice could take turns in carrying the water. So, after everything was adjusted, they set off toward the town, following the dusty road by which they had come.

The way home did not seem as long as the morning's walk, and not a great deal of time had passed when the spires of the village churches appeared in the distance, then they reached the outlying houses, and finally the main street. "I'd just kite up the back way if I were you," said Stella to Marian; "it is a little bit shorter and you won't be likely to meet so many people. Good-bye. We turn off here, you know. I hope you won't get a scolding."

The fear of this, or worse, had been in Marian's heart all along, though she had not mentioned it, and as she stole in the back gate and up the garden walk she hoped she would meet neither her grandmother nor Heppy. The little bucket of blackberries no longer seemed worth while, and she set it down near the apple tree, ran in the side door, past her grandfather's study, and on up-stairs, hoping she could get by the sitting-room without being seen.

But her hopes were in vain, for on the landing appeared her grandmother. "Is that you, Marian?" she asked. "Where have you been all day? Come in here and give an account of yourself."

For a second it was in Marian's thought to say that her nose was bleeding and to make her escape to her room, change her frock and then reappear, but she knew it was only putting off the evil day, for the frock's condition would be discovered sooner or later; and then she was a truthful child, and could not have brought herself to make a false excuse, even though the outcome might have been better for her. So she entered the sitting-room timidly and stood with drooping head before her grandmother.

"Where have you been all day?" repeated her grandmother.

"Oh, didn't Mrs. Hunt tell you?" said Marian in a weak voice. "She said she would. I've been blackberrying."

"With whom?"

"Some of the girls."

"Who gave you permission?"

"Why--why--Mrs. Hunt didn't think you would mind, and--and----"

"Blackberrying! I should think so," exclaimed Mrs. Otway. "What a sight you are, all stained and scratched up. Go, wash your face and hands."

"I did try to get it off at the spring," returned Marian more cheerfully, hoping she was to be let off rather easily after all.

But she had not reached the door before her grandmother called her back. "What in the world have you done to your frock?" she asked, examining her costume in surprise.

"It got torn so and I was so ragged that Stella tore off the skirt," said Marian in faint explanation, "and--" she went on, "she thought she would try to make my petticoat look like a frock; the spots are blackberry juice; they aren't quite the same color, but we all thought they looked pretty well, better than slits and snags."

"Then you have ruined not only your frock but your petticoat. Go to your room and do not come out till I tell you. I will speak to your grandfather and we will see what is to be done about this," said her grandmother in such a severe tone that Marian felt like the worst of criminals and crept to her room in dread distress.

She had not often been seriously punished, but those few times stood out very clearly just now. Once she had been compelled to receive ten sharp strokes from a ruler on her outstretched hand. At another time she had been shut up in a dark closet, and again she had been tied in a chair for some hours. Any of these was bad enough. The first was soonest over, but was the most humiliating, the second was terrifying and nerve racking, while the third tediously long and hard to bear. For some time the child sat tremblingly listening for her grandmother's footsteps, but evidently Mrs. Otway did not intend to use undue haste in the matter. After a while the whistle of the evening train announced that those who had gone up to the city for a day's shopping were now returning, and not long after Miss Dorothy's door opened and Marian could hear the teacher singing softly to herself in the next room.

A new humiliation filled the child's breast. They would tell Miss Dorothy, and she would think of her little friend as some one desperately wicked, too wicked, no doubt, to associate with Patty. The tears stood in Marian's eyes at this possibility. It was very, very wrong, of course, to go off without asking leave, and it was worse to spoil her clothes. She well knew her grandmother's views upon this subject, and that of all things she disapproved of wastefulness. She would say that the clothes might have done good to the poor; they might have been sent in a missionary box to some needy child, and it was wicked and selfish to deprive the poor of something that could be of use.

Oh, yes, Marian knew very well all about the probable lecture in store for her.

She sat dolefully, with clasped hands and tearful eyes. But presently a happier thought came to her. She would tell Miss Dorothy before her grandmother had a chance to do so, and perhaps Miss Dorothy would understand that she had not meant to do wrong in the first place, and that what came after was carelessness and not wilful wickedness. She had been ordered not to leave her room, and this she need not do to carry out her plan. So she softly crossed the floor and timidly knocked at the door between Miss Dorothy's room and her own. It was opened in a moment by her friend, who viewed the forlorn little figure first with a smile, and then with anxious interest. "Why, my dearie," she exclaimed, "what is the matter? Come into my room and tell me what is wrong."

"I can't come in," said Marian in a low tone, "for I mustn't leave my room till grandma bids me. But you can come in mine, can't you?" she added wistfully.

"To be sure I can," and suiting the action to the word, Miss Dorothy entered and sat down by the window, drawing Marian to her side and saying, "Now tell me all about it."

Marian poured forth her doleful tale, beginning with the visit to Mrs. Hunt and ending with the interview with her grandmother. "She wouldn't have minded so much except for the frock and petticoat," she said in conclusion, "but when she found out about those, I could see that she was very, very much put out."

"That was the worst part of it, of course," said Miss Dorothy. "Of course you told her how sorry you were, and that you were so excited over getting the biggest berries that you forgot about the briars. You are not the only one who has done that," she added with a half smile. "You never had been blackberrying before, had you?"

"No, Miss Dorothy, and it was very exciting. We really had a lovely time, only the walk was rather a hot one. Mrs. Hunt was so good; she gave me such a fine lunch. She didn't think grandma would mind, for she said she often used to go blackberrying when she was a little girl."

"She said that, did she?"

"Yes, Miss Dorothy. I ought to return the basket, but I can't go now, and I left the berries down under the apple tree."

"I will go out and bring them in, and I was thinking of going to Mrs. Hunt's to make a call. I may as well go this evening, and then I can return the basket for you. Mr. Hunt is one of our trustees, you know, and I want to see him on a little matter about the school."

"Oh, thank you, Miss Dorothy. I know she uses that little basket for all sorts of things, and she might want it."

"She shall have it," said Miss Dorothy. "Well, dear, I hope your grandmother will not be very hard on you. The only point I can see that needs blame, is your wearing that flimsy delicate frock, but as you had never been blackberrying before, you couldn't know the unkindness of briars."

"There wasn't time to change the frock."

"Yes, I know."

"And you won't think I am very, very, wicked, even if they punish me? You will let Patty be friends with me?"

"I understand all about it, my dearie, and it shall not make the slightest difference so far as Patty is concerned. I only wish I could take your punishment for you."

At this extreme kindness, Marian flung herself upon the floor at Miss Dorothy's feet and sobbed aloud, "You are so dear! you are so dear!"

Miss Dorothy lifted her to her lap, smoothed back her hair and kissed her flushed cheeks. "Cheer up, dear," she said. "One need not be unhappy forever, and I hope this will soon be all over. Now, I must go down and get those berries, or it will be too dark to find them. Don't cry any more," and with a smile Miss Dorothy left her.

It was quite dark when Mrs. Otway at last appeared. "I have talked it over with your grandfather," she began without preface, "and we have decided to punish you by having you wear to school all next week the costume you came home in. That is all we shall do. It will teach you to be more careful next time. You may come down to supper now," and Marian meekly followed.

The blackberries were on the table, but Marian could not touch them. The horror of appearing before her schoolmates in the spotted petticoat filled her with dismay, and although her grandmother felt that she had been really very lenient, no punishment she could have devised would have been more humiliating to the little girl. She had always been a very dainty child, taking pride in her clothes and being glad that she could appear as well as any one she knew. How could she face nineteen pairs of wondering eyes upon Monday morning? She could see the amused countenances, hear the suppressed giggles, and imagine the laughing comments whispered with hands hiding mouths. If only she could fall sick and die so she might never go to school again.

No one paid much attention to her as she sat there barely tasting her supper, though she should have been hungry after her long walk and her early lunch. Miss Dorothy once or twice looked her way and nodded reassuringly, while Heppy slipped an extra large piece of cake on her plate as she was passing it around.

But after Marian had gone to bed and was lying forlornly awake, after an hour of trying to sleep, Miss Dorothy tiptoed into her room to bend over her, and seeing the wide eyes, to say: "I have been down to Mrs. Hunt's. She is a dear. Go to sleep, honey. Just have faith that it will all come out right. Don't worry. I am going to leave my door open so you will not feel that you are all alone." And with a kiss she left her to feel somehow quite satisfied that matters were not so desperate as they seemed, and that Monday's trial might in some way be set aside if she had faith.

_CHAPTER VI_

_The White Apron_

But Monday morning came and there seemed no prospect of any change in Mrs. Otway's decision. She came herself to see that Marian was clad in the costume of disgrace, and she was sternly sent out with the order not to be late. But lest she should shame Miss Dorothy the child lingered out of sight around the corner till her teacher should have passed by and then she ventured down the street by herself. No one imagined the agony each step cost her, nor how she avoided any familiar face, crossing and recrossing as she saw an acquaintance in the distance. She was even about to pass Mrs. Hunt's gate without looking up when some one called her.

"Marian, Marian," came Mrs. Hunt's pleasant voice. "Stop a minute, chickadee."

The first impulse was to run on, but that meant reaching the schoolhouse so much the sooner, so the child hesitated and presently was captured by Mrs. Hunt, who bore down upon her as one not to be denied.

"I've been watching for you," she said. "Come right along in. You have plenty of time. I have something to say to you. There, never mind, I know the whole story and I ought to have all the blame, for it was myself that urged you to go. Now your grandma never said you were not to cover up that ridiculous petticoat, did she? She said you were to wear it, I know, and wear it you must, of course.

"Now, look here, I have an apron that was my little angel Annie's; it's a real pretty one, and it is made so it will cover you all up. I hunted it out this morning early. Put your arms in the sleeves. That's it. Just as I thought; it covers you well up and hides all the spots, doesn't it? It is a little yellow from lying, but no matter, it is clean and smooth. I've two or three more the same pattern. I always liked 'em with those little frills on the shoulders.

"Now, never mind, I know just what you're going to say, but you needn't. I'm taking all the responsibility of this. Just you go along to school and feel as happy as you can. I'm going to see your grandmother before you get home, and I'll make it all right with her, so you are not to bother yourself one little mite. Now trot along, and hurry a little, or you might be a wee bit late. You can wear the apron home. You look real nice in it."

Marian started forth as she was bidden, and then overwhelmed by her sense of relief, she raced back to throw her arms around her good friend's neck and say, "Oh, you are so good. I do love you, I do. What should I do without you and Miss Dorothy?"

"Bless her heart," murmured Mrs. Hunt, giving her a hearty hug. She stood in the doorway, looking after her till she was out of sight. "I never expected to be so happy in seeing another child wear anything of my Annie's," she murmured, wiping her eyes as she entered the house.

The girls were trooping into the schoolroom from the playground when Marian reached the spot, and Miss Dorothy was already at her desk. She looked across and gave Marian a bright smile and an understanding nod as she came in, as much as to say: "What did I tell you? Hasn't it all come out right?" As hers was not the only apron worn, Marian did not feel at all oddly dressed, and her relief was so great that she smiled every time any one looked at her.

Alice sought her out at recess and asked eagerly: "Was your grandmother awfully mad?"

"She didn't like it," returned Marian evasively.

"What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything. She sent me to my room."

"Was that all? Well, I'm glad you came off so easily," said Alice. "We all know how particular your grandmother is, and we were afraid she would do something awfully severe." Then Ruth came up and Marian went off with her to eat luncheon, so no more was said on the subject.

"Mrs. Hunt told me I could wear it home," said Marian to herself, as she went up street from school. She was alone, for Miss Dorothy had been detained and had told her not to wait. Marian paused at Mrs. Hunt's gate to see if she were there to give her further encouragement, for as she was nearing home, the child felt her spirits oozing. What would her grandmother say? She remembered, however, that Mrs. Hunt had charged her not to worry, so, finding all silent and deserted at her friend's house, she plucked up courage, believing that Mrs. Hunt had not failed her, and that she was probably at that very moment, closeted with her grandmother.

She was not disappointed, for as she entered the sitting-room she saw the two having a lively chat. "Here comes the child," cried Mrs. Hunt cheerily. "We were just talking over old times, Marian. I was reminding your grandmother of the time we all went nutting to Jones's lot, and she fell into a mud-hole and was plastered to her ears. She had to sit in the sun till she dried off, and then I took her home. My mother rigged her up in some of my clothes, and she went home with her heart in her mouth." Marian smiled. She understood the method Mrs. Hunt was taking to smooth matters over for herself.

"Another time," Mrs. Hunt turned to the other lady, "do you remember, Maria, when we all went to Perryman's Beach and waded in the water? You'd had a cold or something, and were afraid your mother would find out you'd gone with us. She did find out, I remember, because you didn't dry your feet well, and your bed was full of sand the next morning. Dear me, dear me, that was a good while ago, wasn't it?"

Mrs. Otway was smiling with a far-away look in her eyes. "I remember," she said.

"You can't put old heads on young shoulders," went on Mrs. Hunt, "and if our mothers had looked ahead and had seen what sober old matrons we would become, I guess they wouldn't have worried as much as they did over our little pranks."

Marian edged up to her good friend who put her arm around her. Mrs. Otway turned her eyes upon her granddaughter. "Where did you get that apron, Marian?" asked Mrs. Otway, a change coming over her face.

"I lent it to her," Mrs. Hunt spoke up. "It was my Annie's and I wasn't going to have Ralph Otway's daughter disgraced by going through the streets in a petticoat; I'm too fond of him and of her, too. I remember once how I made my Annie wear a purple frock she despised. It was the very week before she died," Mrs. Hunt's voice dropped, "and you can believe, Maria Otway, that if I had it to do over again, the purple frock would have gone in the fire before she should ever have worn it. Poor little darling, the girls made fun of it because it was so ugly and old-womanish. I could have spared her feelings and I didn't. I have that purple frock now," she went on. "I kept it to remind me not to hurt the feelings of one of His little ones when there was no need to." The tears were running down Mrs. Hunt's cheeks by now, but she went on: "You can think as you choose, but I have said my say."

"I don't think you would ever hurt any one's feelings if you could help it, Salome," said Mrs. Otway, melted by the childless woman's tears. Then turning to Marian, "Run along now, Marian," she said.

"Shall I take off the apron?"

"No, you needn't."

And that was all there was of it, but the next morning before breakfast said Mrs. Otway outside Marian's door: "You may put on your blue gingham for school, Marian."

So did Mrs. Hunt triumph and so did Miss Dorothy laugh in her sleeve when she saw Marian appear in the clean blue frock. It was after school when she and Marian were coming home together that she confessed to having had something to do with bringing about this pleasant state of things. "I went down to Mrs. Hunt's and told her all about it," she said, "and we hatched up the scheme between us, so our works and your faith brought about what we wished for. If you had been really disobedient, and had intended to do wrong we could not have been so eager to help you, but I think your punishment exceeded the offense and Mrs. Hunt thought the same. Isn't she a dear woman, Marian? I feel as if I had known her all my days, and as if I could go right to her in time of trouble."

"That is the way every one feels," Marian told her. "I stopped there this morning to take back the apron, and she said she knew Annie was glad I had worn it. She talks that way about Annie, so I almost feel as if I knew her and as if she knew me."

"Perhaps she does," returned Miss Dorothy quietly. "Now, when are you going to send the letter to your father? Don't you think it is most time you were getting it ready? And, by the way, I have not shown you my camera. I left it in the city to be put in order and it came this morning. Now, I was thinking it would be very nice to send your father a little book of snap pictures of his small daughter. I will take them, and can develop and print them myself. I have some gray paper that we can cut into sheets to be folded the proper size to mount the pictures upon, and it will make a very nice present, don't you think so?"

"Oh, Miss Dorothy!" Marian's face showed her delight. "I think that is the very loveliest idea that any one ever thought of. I think you have an angelic mind for thinking of things."

Miss Dorothy laughed. "I am so glad you are pleased with the idea. My plan is not to take the pictures all at once, but as I happen to catch you in a characteristic position, or an artistic one. For instance, one can be taken at school at your desk, or the blackboard; another in the garden, another in the sitting-room with your grandparents, another with Tippy and Dippy."

"More and more lovely," cried Marian. "Then he will feel almost as if he were here seeing me every day, and will get acquainted with me so much better in that way. I don't feel as if my father and I were very well acquainted."

"You poor little pet, of course you don't, but once you begin sending letters back and forth it will be quite different."

"Yes, I think so, too. Miss Dorothy, do you suppose my father will ever come home?"

"I don't know why he shouldn't."

"I do; it is because grandpa will not ask him to. I think grandma would like to, but grandpa won't let her; that is what I think, and I believe Mrs. Hunt thinks so, too."

Miss Dorothy was silent for a moment, then she said: "Perhaps we'd better not talk about it, dear, for I don't know the circumstances, and I might not judge correctly, but if it is right that he should come, I think your writing to him will be the surest way of bringing it about the sooner. Shall we write the letter this afternoon?"

"Oh, please."

"Then come to my room in about an hour and we'll try it."

Marian was promptly on hand when the hour arrived, and seated herself in a great twitter before the machine. She began bravely enough: "My dear father," and then she paused, but slowly went on till she had completed half a page of typewritten words. Miss Dorothy did not offer any suggestions, but sat at the other side of the room before her writing-table. At the pause in the clicking of the typewriter she looked up. "Well," she said, "you haven't finished yet, have you?"

"I don't know," responded Marian doubtfully. "Would you mind looking at what I have done?"

Miss Dorothy came over and read the few stiff lines: