Little Maid Marian

by Amy Ella Blanchard

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."