“Now let’s see,” said Mary Jane to herself, “Betty’s room was right around a corner—” But there wasn’t any room around that first corner—only a long hall. A lump came into Mary Jane’s throat. The building was so big, so very, very big. And she felt so little, so very, very little. She swallowed twice, determined not to cry and then she said out loud in a queer frightened little voice, “I guess I’m lost. I’m lost in school!”
SAND CASTLES
“I Guess I’m lost! I’m lost in school!”
Mary Jane’s frightened little whisper sounded like a shout and the doors and walls and hallways seemed to echo back, “Lost! Little girl lost!” in a most desolate fashion. Mary Jane was so frightened that she stood perfectly still—just as still as though her shoes were fastened to the floor. And she looked straight ahead as though she was trying to see through the wall at which she was staring. To tell the truth, Mary Jane wasn’t trying to see through the wall. She didn’t even know a wall was in front of her. She couldn’t see a single thing, not even a big wall, because a mist of tears was in her eyes and a great lump was growing in her throat.
Now Mary Jane wasn’t a baby. And she never cried—or any way, she hardly ever cried because she was going on six and girls who are going on six don’t cry. But to be lost in a strange school and in a strange city and—everything; well, it’s not much wonder that Mary Jane felt pretty queer.
But before the tears had time to fall, there was a heavy footstep behind her and Mary Jane whirled around to see—the kindly face of Tom the janitor smiling at her.
“Aren’t you pretty late getting to your room?” he asked.
Mary Jane couldn’t answer. She was so relieved to have someone around that for a minute she just couldn’t get the lump out of her throat enough to talk.