“Oh, sometimes I thought it was sort of fun. One day, I remember, at school the teacher had us put our hands up and up as we sang, higher and higher, like this,” and she raised her arms in a gently undulating motion. “That evening I did it again as I came out, and the people at the séance all held their breath and whispered, ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ You ought to have heard them,” and Posey laughed as she recalled the incident. “Yes, sometimes it was no end of fun, but most times I was tired and sleepy and it was so tiresome. The changing dresses, and wigs, and all that, and I used to think how stupid the folks were not to know that it was only me.”
“And were you frightened when they found you out?”
“Frightened? Well, I guess I was! I knew the Madam would be in a rage, and I didn’t know what they would do to me, either. They tore my wig off, and crowded round me, and everybody was talking at once, but I pulled away, somehow, and ran. My, how I did run; ’way up into the attic! I’d never been there before, but it was some place to hide, and it wasn’t so bad, for I stumbled onto an old mattress, only I was afraid there might be rats. But I wasn’t as afraid of the rats as I was of the people downstairs, and by and by, when it was all still, I went to sleep. Then in the morning when I waked up and went down the Madam was gone. She knew that I had no other place in the world to go to; but she never did care for anybody but herself. I tell you, it was awful to be turned out so, and not know what to do. I felt almost as bad as when you saw me this morning.”
“It was a shame,” Ben agreed heartily. “But then she couldn’t have been a very good woman, anyway. And don’t you think it was just as wrong as lying to deceive people so?”
“I suppose it was,” Posey admitted simply. “My mamma always told me never to tell lies, and I don’t mean to; but I began to ‘manifest,’ as she always called it, when I was so little that I didn’t think anything about its being right or wrong. I should have had to done it whether I wanted to or not, for when Madam was cross I tell you I had to stand round. Besides, that was the way we made our living, and in the city folks have to have money to live. Here in the country you don’t know anything about it. Look at the apples in that orchard. I used to go to the market for Madam and buy a quart of apples. Just six or seven, you know. Sometimes I could get a market-woman to put on one more, and then I had that to eat for myself. And milk! Why, we never bought more than a pint at a time, more often half a pint; and a half a pound or a pound of butter. You don’t know how strange it did seem to go out and pick things off as they grew, and to see so much of everything.”
“I wouldn’t want to live that way,” admitted Ben.
“I guess not. Sometimes I felt so much older than the other girls of my age at Horsham. They had fathers and mothers who bought them everything. They never thought about the cost, and they all had spending money—not a great deal, but some—to use as they pleased. And I—why I can hardly remember when I didn’t have to think about the price of everything. When Madam gave me money to go out and buy things she used to say, ‘Now see how far you can make this go.’ She was always telling me how much my shoes and clothes and what I ate cost. And as for ever having any money to spend for my very own self, why I wouldn’t know what that was.” She paused and an accent of bitterness crept into her next words: “You may say what you please, but I believe God cares a lot more for some folks than He does for others. He gives them such a sight more. At any rate, I’m ‘most certain He doesn’t care anything for me,” and she gave the red dashboard a little kick by way of emphasis.
“Why, Posey!” Ben cried in astonishment, “God cares for everybody!”
“Well, then,” protested Posey fiercely, “why did He make my mother die, and why doesn’t He give me a home somewhere?”
Ben looked puzzled for a moment, then he brightened. “Did you ever ask Him to take care of you?”