THE little girl was sitting on a stone, with her lap full of hawthorn, wild hyacinths, and wood anemones, which she was making into a bunch to carry home with her. The lady was sitting beside her, reading a letter.
The little girl was very pretty. She had long fair hair hanging over her shoulders, and beautiful dark blue eyes. I could see the child’s face quite well, but the lady had her back turned to me.
Presently she began to read aloud. I was going to turn away, for mother has often told me it is very wrong to listen to any conversation that we are not intended to hear; but before I could move, I heard that she was reading a verse of a hymn, so I thought there could be no harm in my hearing that before I left the place. The first two lines caught my attention. I thought God must have brought me there to hear them:—
‘He will not always tell thee how
He means to grant thy prayer
He whispers, “Leave it all to Me,
Roll upon Me thy care ;”
Lord, I obey, and calmly rest
Till Thou shalt order as is best.’
‘What a nice verse, mother!’ said the little girl. ‘Is that in father’s letter?’
‘Yes, darling,’ said the lady.
I was moving away, when the lady, hearing my steps, turned round, and, for the first time, I saw her face.
Then I stood still for a minute, for I felt sure that I had seen her before, and I felt sure too that she knew me. Where had I seen that kind face, and heard that pleasant voice? I had only to consider for a moment, and then all at once it came into my mind. It was the lady I had seen at the railway station when I arrived at Clinton, and who had been so very kind to me when I was feeling lonely and desolate. I think she remembered where she had seen me at the very same time, for she said, as she got up to speak to me—
‘We have met before, I think; have we not ?’
I told her I could never thank her enough for her kindness to me that night. She was very anxious to hear how I got on after I left her; and I told her that Miss Maynard was net in bed when I arrived. She was so pleased, and said she had thought of me, and had wished afterwards that she had gone with me herself and that she had asked God to take care of me and help me.
I thanked her again, and was going away, when she called me back, and asked me if we were ever allowed to spend the day with any friends we might have in Clinton. I told her that the last Saturday in every month was a whole holiday, and that then we might go out, if we were invited to do so.
‘I wonder if Miss Maynard would allow you to come to me some Saturday,’ she said. ‘If you will give me her address I will call on her.’ She wrote Miss Maynard’s address on the back of the letter, and then I told her I must go to Mademoiselle, as she would be expecting me.
But I went away from the rock much happier than I had come there. I felt sue now that God would hear my prayer, and would show Miss Maynard that I had not been untruthful or careless.
When we got back to the house we went upstairs at once to prepare for dinner. I met Miss Maynard on one of the landings, and she looked so white and ill that I was quite frightened, and I even once thought of stopping her, and asking her what was the matter. But somehow I could not get the words out, and she passed quickly by me.
‘Did you see Miss Maynard, Maria ?’ I said, as we were brushing our hair.
‘Yes,’ said Maria, ‘she looked very bad. What can be the matter with her? Someone must be dead, I think.’
A few minutes afterwards the dinner bell rang, and we all went downstairs, Miss Maynard was not at the table, but she sent a message by the servant to Mademoiselle, asking her to take her place. Flora was also absent, but she had a very bad cold, and had not been out with us ; so we were not much surprised that her dinner was sent upstairs to her.
We were all very quiet that day at dinner; no one was inclined to speak ; we all felt something must have happened, and none of us had the least idea what it was.
We had our drawing lesson that afternoon.
Mr. Curtis, the drawing-master, came as usual, but Miss Maynard never appeared in the schoolroom. We missed her very much, for she generally sits beside us with her work, and every now and then she comes round to see how we are getting on, and to give us kin. encouraging words when she thinks we are improving.
It seemed a long afternoon, and we were very glad when it was over.
‘Is anything the matter, Mademoiselle?’ said Alice Marshall, as we sat round the fire before tea. ‘Is Miss Maynard ill?’
‘That is impossible for me to say, my dear!’ said Mademoiselle mysteriously. ‘It seems something has happened, but Miss Maynard does not tell me what it is. Well, well! We shall see! we shall see!’
That evening, when the others were learning their lessons, Miss Maynard called me into her sitting room.
Oh, how fast my heart beat! What could be the matter? It was evidently something in which I was specially interested. A dreadful, terrible thought tame into my mind. Could mother be dead? Had. Miss Maynard received a telegram whilst we were out, to ask her to tell me this ?
The more I thought of it, the more I felt sure that this must be what was wrong. ‘Miss Maynard has dreaded telling me,’ I said to myself, as I followed her downstairs, ‘and that has made her look so ill. Oh, mother! mother! mother!’
It may seem very strange, but it is quite true, that, in the few moments which passed between my leaving the schoolroom and reaching Miss Maynard’s room, all these thoughts passed through my mind, and I felt what a sad. and desolate world this would be to me without mother’s love. I even remembered a day when we were staying at Ravenscliffe, and when I had spoken crossly to mother, and she had said to me so sadly, and yet so gently, ‘Oh, Olive! Olive!’ And now I thought I should, never be able to forgive myself for having ever said or done anything that mother did not like.
Miss Maynard waited for me at the door and took hold of my hand to lead me into the room. The more kind she was to me, the more miserable it made me feel, for it made me feel still more sure that she had bad news to give me.