“I WAS nearly thirteen years of age at the beginning of my second school year, so took my place among the elder girls." New-corners were, on their arrival at B—, always placed under the care of an old scholar, who was expected to give all the help she could, until the ways of the house and school were thoroughly understood.
“I felt quite grown-up on being told that a new girl would, it was expected, arrive in a few days, and that I had been chosen to be her mother, as the caretaker was always called.
“Where did she live? How old was she? Had she been to school before? were questions I asked of the teacher with great interest.
“Dear Marion! The little I heard even then of her story ought to have filled my heart with tenderness and compassion for the lonely orphan, but I think now that we school-mothers were a little too fond of displaying our authority, and while no actual unkindness or injustice would have been allowed, we missed many golden opportunities for winning the affection of the younger children committed to our care, and so helping to make their schooldays bright and happy ones.
“Marion was, I have already told you, an orphan, her father and mother having died within a few weeks of each other, only a short time before.
“Her father, a civil engineer, had held a good appointment under the Austrian Government, and soon after his death it was decided by sympathizing friends that Marion, who at that time was about ten years old, and had been blind from birth, should be sent to England for education.
“Her sister Helen, who was a few years older than herself, declined a home that had been offered to her in Trieste, and decided to accompany her sister. A situation as junior teacher in a school near Bath having been found for her, the two lonely girls said a tearful ‘Goodbye' to the land of their birth, and sailed for England.
“Poor girls! I think the Lord may have allowed their youth and apparent friendlessness to touch many hearts, for Marion had often told me of the kindness they received not only from the captain of the ship during the whole of the voyage, but from their fellow passengers and sailors on board.
“I shall never forget the day of Marion's arrival at school, a shy, silent girl, dressed in deep mourning, who cried a great deal, and could scarcely speak a word of English. I was a lively, fun-loving girl, and at once made up my mind that I did not like my charge: she was too dull. However, I determined to teach her all I could, in the hope that she would, as I expressed it, ‘soon be off my hands.'
“Ah! I little thought how dearly I should learn to love her before my task ended!
“Helen was to stay with us for a few days, so that Marion might get used to school-life and companions before the real parting with her sister. I liked Helen, though I should have found it difficult to explain why.
“Perhaps I should have said, ‘Oh, she is bright and pleasant.'
“I think now that she tried to hide the sorrow she must have felt at the loss of both parents, that she might comfort and encourage her afflicted sister. Something about Helen had interested me greatly; she seemed altogether different from any one I had ever known. I learned after, that she had been truly converted during a time of awakening among the boarders in a school she had attended before quitting her native land.
“One thing puzzled me greatly. When we were in the playground, or round the schoolroom fire, Helen would join our group, and after a few pleasant words to all, say something in their own language to Marion, draw her gently away, and lead her into her own room. Then the door was closed, and the sisters would remain alone for some time.
“I wanted very much to know the reason of these mysterious disappearances, but had to wait till Marion had made some progress in English speaking before my curiosity was gratified.
“The parting came all too soon, and though I am sure Marion felt it deeply, she was comforted by a promise that her sister should pay her a three weeks' visit during the holidays.
“Little by little my unreasonable dislike to Marion began to melt away: she was so gentle and patient that it would have been hard not to love her, and as she learned to speak English, she felt herself less a stranger in our midst, and her cheerfulness gradually increased.
“A warm friendship now sprang up between us, and we both looked forward to Helen's visit with pleasure: I because it would, I knew, make Marion very happy, and Marion because she loved her sister dearly. She came at last looking a little pale and worn with the burden of her new duties, but spoke brightly, and told us many interesting things about her class of deaf and dumb children, or, as they are called, deaf mutes.
“Marion was again often drawn away to her sister's room, and I soon learned, what I had for some time suspected, that it was for daily Bible reading and prayer.
“I went to church, knelt every night by my white bed, and repeated a form of words called a prayer (it being one of the rules of the school that we should do so); but I had no love for ‘unseen things,' and I could not understand why any one should read the Bible, or pray when not required to do so. Still, I could not help wishing I had a sister who would read and pray with me.
“I should very much have liked to be admitted to these Bible readings, but though I could talk freely enough on other subjects, a feeling of false shame kept me from saying so, even to Marion.
“Marion had been at school about a year, when I received a visit from my mother, who told me that as my father's duties made it necessary that he should leave Dover and live at Plymouth, she could not be happy at the thought of leaving me at so great a distance, so that I must say 'Adieu' to my teachers and school friends, as I should not return to Brighton after the holidays, arrangements for my transfer into a small School and Home for Blind Children having already been completed.
“I was very, very sorry, for the two years I had spent at Brighton had been very happy ones; but when told by my mother that as the school into which I was to be admitted was only a short distance from P—, and that she hoped I should not only spend my summer holidays, but now and then a week-end at home, I became more reconciled to the thought of leaving B—, though I must tell you before I go on with my story that the hope of being a frequent visitor at home ended only in disappointment to both my mother and myself. Within a few months my father was again removed, this time to Wales, and as the distance was thought too great for me to take the journey alone, I was obliged to remain at school during the holidays for the two or three years that followed.
“Poor Marion cried a great deal when she heard the sad news, to her, of my intended removal, and for some days quite refused to be comforted, But though our good-byes were said by both with tears, we promised always to be true friends, and to write to each other very often.
“But Flora is saying, ‘Oh, auntie! how could you write to each other when neither you nor Marion could see?'
“Well, dear, I do not wonder at your surprise. The Braille or dotted system now so largely used not only by the blind but by seeing friends who take an interest in them and their needs had not come into use in our schooldays, but we had been taught to write in what we called an 'Alstone frame,' the letters of the alphabet being formed by tiny points of strong wire being fixed into blocks of hard wood, and placed in the frame something in the same way as that in which a printer sets his type.
“It took me some time to get used to life at D—. I had known every nook and corner of our schoolroom and play-ground at Brighton so well, and I did not feel myself at home in my new surroundings. I missed my teachers, too, and Marion, more than I can find words to tell. Sometimes I would picture her in my mind, and almost seem to hear her crying very quietly in a corner of the playground, and at such times used to feel that I wanted to cry too.
“I did not know or even think of it at the time, but I believe now that God was working in my soul, leading me by a way I knew not, giving me to feel that real joy and rest of heart is not to be found in anything this poor world can give.
“I was often very unhappy, and when I heard of any one being ill or dying, the thought that I might die too would fill me with fear, for I knew that I was not fit to meet a holy God.
“Sometimes I would make up my mind to be what I called good, to read a chapter in the Bible every day, and not forget to say my prayers; but I was in the dark. I did not know the Lord Jesus as my own Savior, and all my trying only made me more unhappy.”