Marjorie's New Friend

by Carolyn Wells

  CHAPTER V

  A TEARFUL TIME

  The New Year was about a week old, and so far, had nobly fulfilled allhopes of happiness.

  To be sure, Marjorie had been obliged to begin school again, but as shehad the companionship of Gladys Fulton, who dearly loved to go to school,it helped her to bear the trial.

  She had been to spend the afternoon with Gladys and was returning home atfive o'clock, as was the rule for winter days.

  She turned in at her own gate-way, and had there been any one to see her,it might have been noticed that her demeanor and expression were veryunlike the usual appearance of gay, laughing Marjorie Maynard.

  In fact, she looked the picture of utter despair and dejection. Her headhung down, her steps were slow, and yet she seemed filled with a riot ofindignation.

  Her face was flushed and her eyes red, and though not exactly crying,great shivering sobs now and then shook her whole body.

  Once inside her own home grounds, she quickened her pace a little, andalmost ran up the verandah steps and in at the door.

  She slammed it behind her, and though, I am sorry to say, this was not anunusual proceeding for Midget, yet she was truly trying to break herselfof the habit.

  But this time she gave the door a hard, angry slam, and flinging herwraps anywhere, as she went along, she brushed hastily through thevarious rooms in search of her mother.

  But Mrs. Maynard and Kitty had gone out driving, and King wasn't at home,either, so poor Marjorie, her eyes now blinded with surging tears,stumbled on to her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on her littlewhite bed.

  She buried her face in the pillow and gave way to such tumultuous griefthat the brass bedstead fairly shook in sympathy.

  "I can't bear it!" she murmured, half aloud; "I _can't_ bear it! It's awicked shame! I don't Want to live any more! Oh, I _wish_ Mother wouldcome home!"

  For nearly half an hour Marjorie cried and cried. Now with big, bursting,heart-rending sobs, and at quieter intervals, with floods of hot tears.

  Her little handkerchief became a useless, wet ball, and she dried hereyes, spasmodically, on various parts of the pillow-case.

  At last, in one of her paroxysms of woe, she felt a little hand on hercheek, and Rosy Posy's little voice said, sweetly:

  "What 'e matter, Middy? Wosy Posy loves 'oo!"

  This was a crumb of comfort, and Marjorie drew the baby's cool cheekagainst her own hot one.

  The child scrambled up on the bed, beside her sister, and petted hergently, saying:

  "Don't ky, Middy; 'top kyin'."

  "Oh, Rosy Posy, I'm so miserable! where is Mother?"

  "Muvver dawn yidin'. Wosy take care of 'oo. Want Nannie?"

  "No, I don't want Nannie. You stay here, little sister, till Mothercomes."

  "Ess. Wosy 'tay wiv Middy. Dear Middy."

  The loving baby cuddled up to her sister, and smoothed back the tangledcurls with her soft little hand, until exhausted Marjorie, quite worn outwith her turbulent storm of tears, fell asleep.

  And here Mrs. Maynard found them, as, coming in soon, she went in searchof her eldest daughter.

  "Why, Baby," she said; "what's the matter? Is Marjorie sick?"

  "No," said Rosamond, holding up a tiny finger. "She's aseep. She kied andkied, Middy did, an' nen she went seepy-by, all herself."

  "Cried!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, looking at Midget's swollen,tear-stained face. "What was she crying about?"

  "I donno," answered Rosy, "but she feeled awful bad 'bout somefin'."

  "I should think she did! You run away to Nurse, darling; you were goodBaby to take care of Midget, but, now, run away and leave her to Mother."

  Mrs. Maynard brought some cool water and bathed the flushed little face,and then sprinkling some violet water on a handkerchief she laid itlightly across Midget's brow. After a time the child woke, and found hermother sitting beside her.

  "Oh, Mother!" she cried; "oh, Mother!"

  "What is it, dearie?" said Mrs. Maynard, putting her arms round Marjorie."Tell Mother, and we'll make it all right, somehow."

  She was quite sure Miss Mischief had been up to some prank, which hadturned out disastrously. But it must have been a serious one, and perhapsthere were grave consequences to be met.

  "Oh, Mother, it's the most dreadful thing!" Here Marjorie's sobs brokeout afresh, and she really couldn't speak coherently.

  "Never mind," said Mrs. Maynard, gently, fearing the excitable childwould fly into hysterics. "Never mind it to-night. Tell me about itto-morrow."

  "N-no,--I w-want to tell you now,--only,--I c-can't talk. Oh, Mother,what shall I d-do? G-Gladys--"

  "Yes, dear; Gladys,--what did she do? Or perhaps you and Gladys--"

  Mrs. Maynard now surmised that the two girls were in some mischievousscrape, and she felt positive that Marjorie had been the instigator, asindeed she usually was.

  "Oh, Mother, darling," as something in Mrs. Maynard's tone made Marjoriesmile a little through her tears, "it isn't _mischief_! It's a thousandtimes worse than that!"

  Middy was quieter now, with the physical calm that always follows a stormof tears.

  "It's this; Gladys is going away! Forever! I mean, they're _all_ going tomove away,--out west, and I'll never see her again!"

  Mrs. Maynard realized at once what this meant to Marjorie. The girls weresuch good friends, and neither of them cared so much for any one else, asfor each other. The Fultons lived just across the street, and had alwayslived there, through both the little girls' lives. It was almost likelosing her own brother or sister, for Marjorie and Gladys were aslovingly intimate as two sisters could be.

  Also, it seemed a case where no word of comfort or cheer could be spoken.

  So Mrs. Maynard gently caressed her troubled child, and said:

  "My poor, darling Midget; I'm _so_ sorry for you. Are you sure? Tell meall about it."

  "Yes, Mother," went on Marjorie, helped already by her mother's lovingsympathy; "they just told me this afternoon. I've been over there, youknow, and Gladys and Mrs. Fulton told me all about it. Mr. Fulton isn'twell, or something, and for his health, they're all going to California,to live there. And they're going right away! The doctor says they musthurry. And, oh, what _shall_ I do without Gladys? I love her so!"

  "Dear little girl, this is your first trouble; and it has come to youjust in the beginning of this happy New Year. I can't tell you how sorryI am for you, and how I long to help you bear it. But there's no way Ican help, except by sympathy and love."

  "You _do_ help, Mother. I thought I'd _die_ before you came!"

  "Yes, darling, I know my sympathy helps you, but I mean, I can't doanything to lessen your sorrow at losing Gladys."

  "No,--and oh, Mother, isn't it awful? Why, I've _always_ had Gladys."

  "You'll have to play more with Kitty."

  "Oh, of course I love Kit, to play with at home, and to be my sister. ButGlad is my chum, my intimate friend, and we always sit together inschool, and everything like that. Kitty's in another room, and besides,she has Dorothy Adams for her friend. You know the difference betweenfriends and sisters, don't you, Mother?"

  "Of course I do, Midget, dear. You and Kitty are two loving littlesisters, but I quite understand how you each love your friends of yourown age."

  "And Kitty can keep Dorothy, but I must lose Gladys," and Marjorie's sobsbroke out anew.

  "Why, Mopsy Midget Maynard! Why are we having April showers in January?"

  Mr. Maynard's cheery voice sounded in Marjorie's doorway, and his wifebeckoned him to come in.

  "See what you can do for our little girl," she said; "she is trying tobear her first real trouble, and I'm sure, after these first awful hoursshe's going to be brave about it."

  "What is it, Mops?" said her father, taking the seat Mrs. Maynardvacated. "Tell your old father-chum all about it. You know your troublesare mine, too."

  "Oh, Father," said Marjorie, brightening a little under the influence ofhis strong, helpful voice; "Gladys
Fulton is going away from Rockwell tolive; and I can't have her for my chum any more."

  "Yes, I know; I saw Mr. Fulton and he told me. He's pretty ill,Marjorie."

  "Yes, I know it; and I'm awful sorry for him, and for them. But I'm sorryfor myself too; I don't want Gladys to go away."

  "That's so; you will lose your chum, won't you? By jiminy! it _is_ hardlines, little girl. How are you going to take it?"

  Marjorie stopped crying, and stared at her father.

  "How am I going to take it?" she said, in surprise.

  "Yes; that's what I asked. Of course, it's a sorrow, and a deep one, andyou'll be very lonely without Gladys, and though your mother and I, andall of us, will help you all we can, yet we can't help much. So, it's upto you. Are you going to give way, and mope around, and make yourselfeven more miserable than need be; or, are you going to be brave, andhonestly try to bear this trouble nobly and patiently?"

  Marjorie looked straight into her father's eyes, and realized that he wasnot scolding or lecturing her, he was looking at her with deep, lovingsympathy that promised real help.

  "I will try to bear it bravely," she said, slowly; "but, Father, thatdoesn't make it any easier to have Gladys go."

  Mr. Maynard smiled at this very human sentiment, and said:

  "No, Midget, dear, it doesn't, in one way; but in another way it does.You mustn't think that I don't appreciate fully your sorrow at losingGladys. But troubles come into every life, and though this is your first,I cannot hope it will be your last. So, if you are to have more of them,you must begin to learn to bear them rightly, and so make them help yourcharacter-growth and not hinder it."

  "But, Father, you see Gladys helps my character a lot. She loves to go toschool, and I hate it. But if I go with her, and sit with her I don'tmind it so much. But without her,--oh how _can_ I go to school withouther?"

  Again Marjorie wept as one who could not be comforted, and Mr. Maynardrealized it was truly a crisis in the little girl's life.

  "Marjorie," he said, very tenderly, "it _is_ a hard blow, and I don'twonder it is crushing you. Nor do I expect you to take a philosophicalview of it at present. But, my child, we'll look at it practically, atleast. Gladys _is_ going; nothing can change that fact. Now, for my sake,as well as your own, I'm going to _ask_ you to be my own brave daughter,and not disappoint me by showing a lack of cheerful courage to meetmisfortune."

  "I don't want to be babyish, Father," said Midget, suddenly feelingashamed of herself.

  "You're not babyish, dear; it's right and womanly to feel grief at losingGladys; but since it has to be, I want you to conquer that grief, and notlet it conquer you."

  "I'll try," said Midge, wiping away some tears.

  "You know, Marjorie, the old rhyme:

  "'For every evil under the sun,There is a remedy, or there's none;If there is one, try to find it,And if there is none, never mind it.'

  "Now, I don't say 'never mind it' about this matter, but since there's noremedy, do the best you can to rise above it, as you will have to do manytimes in your future years."

  "Father," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "that sounds awful noble, but Idon't believe I quite understand. What can I _do_ to 'rise above it'?"

  "Marjorie, you're a trump! I'd rather you'd be practical, than wise. Andthere's no better weapon with which to fight trouble than practicality.Now, I'll tell you what to do. And I don't mean today or tomorrow, forjust at first, you wouldn't be a human little girl if you _didn't_ nearlycry your eyes out at the loss of your friend. But soon,--say about nextTuesday,--if you could begin to smile a little, and though I know it willbe hard, smile a little wider and wider each day--"

  "Till the top of my head comes off?" said Marjorie, smiling already.

  "Yes; theoretically. But make up your mind that since Gladys must go,you're not going to let the fact turn you into a sad, dolorous mopeinstead of Mops."

  "That's all very well at home, Father dear, but I'll miss her so atschool."

  "Of course you will; but is there any remedy?"

  "No, there isn't. I don't want any other seat-mate, and I don't want tosit alone."

  "Oh! Well, I can't see any way out of that, unless I go and sit withyou."

  Marjorie had to laugh at this. "You couldn't squeeze in the space," shesaid.

  "Well, then you've proved there's _no_ remedy. So, never mind it! I meanthat, dearie. When you are lonely and just fairly _aching_ for Gladys,put it bravely out of your mind."

  "How can I?"

  "Why, fill your mind with something else that will crowd it out. Say toyourself, 'There's that sorrow poking his head up again, and I must pushhim down.' Then go at something _hard_. Study your spelling, or go on apicnic, _anything_ to crowd that persistent sorrow out."

  "Can't I ever think of Gladys?"

  "Oh, yes, indeed! but think gay, happy thoughts. If memories of your goodtimes make you sad, then cut them out, and wonder what sort of fun she'shaving where she is. Write her nice, cheery letters. Letters are lots offun."

  "Indeed they are," said Marjorie, brightening. "I'll love to get herletters."

  "Of course you will. And you can send each other postcards and littlegifts, and if you try you can have a lot of pleasure with Gladys in spiteof old sorrow."

  "Daddy, you're such a dear! You've helped me a heap."

  "That's what daddys are for, Midget mine. You're one of my four favoritechildren, and don't you suppose I'd help you to the earth, if you wantedit?"

  "I 'spect you would. And, Father, you said I could cry till aboutTuesday, didn't you?"

  "Why, yes; but make it a little shorter spell each day, and,--ifperfectly convenient, arrange to do it when I'm at home."

  "Oh, Father, that's the time I won't cry! When you're here to talk tome."

  "You don't say so! Then I'll retire from business, close up my office,and stay at home all day hereafter. Anything I can do to help a lady indistress, must be done!"

  They were both laughing now, and Midge had quite stopped crying, thoughher heart was heavy underneath her smiles.

  But the whole current of her thoughts had been changed by her talk withher father, and as she made herself tidy, and went down to dinner, shefelt a responsibility on her to act as became the brave daughter of sucha dear father.

  And, strange to say, the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.