“No, ma'am,” Marty answered, “but I don't want to go to-day.”
Mrs. Ashford thought perhaps Marty and Edith had had a little falling out, though it must be said they very seldom quarreled; or that Marty was beginning to tire a little of her new enterprise, for she was rather in the habit of taking things up with great energy and soon becoming weary of them. Mrs. Ashford had not expected her missionary enthusiasm to last very long; and as she herself was not at that time much interested in such matters, she was not prepared to keep up Marty's zeal, but was inclined to allow her to go on with the work or give it up, just as she chose, as she did in matters of less importance.
However, Mrs. Ashford knew that, whatever the trouble was, it would all come out sooner or later, for Marty always told her everything. So she merely said,
“Well, as it is so bleak to-day and you have a cold, perhaps it would be just as well for you not to go out.”
Marty, disinclined to play, took one of her “Bessie Books” and sat down by the window. Though so cheerless out-doors, with the wind whistling among the leafless trees and blowing the dust about, that sitting room was certainly very cosey and pleasant.
Marty's “pretty mamma,” as she often called her, in her becoming afternoon gown of soft, dark red stuff, sat in a low rocker in front of the bright fire busy with her embroidery and softly singing as she worked. Freddie, on the rug at her feet, played quietly with a string of buttons. The only sounds in the room were Mrs. Ashford's murmured song and an occasional chirp from the canary. But all at once this cheerful quietness was broken by loud sobbing.
Poor Marty had been so unhappy the last two days, and now added to what she felt to be the meanness of appropriating that missionary penny, was the disappointment of not being at the meeting, for she was longing to be there, though not feeling fit to go. Besides, it was a great load on her mind that she had not told her mamma how she got the chair, nor what was the reason she did not want to go to the meeting. And now she could endure her wretchedness no longer.
“What's the matter, Marty?” exclaimed Mrs. Ashford, much startled. “Are you ill? Is your throat sore? Come here and tell me what ails you?”
“Oh, mamma, I'm very, very wicked,” sobbed Marty, and running to her mother's arms she tried to tell her troubles, but cried so that she could not be understood.
“Never mind, never mind,” said her mother soothingly. “Wait until you can stop crying and then tell me all about it.”