HOW MARIAN CROSSED THE RAINBOW BRIDGE
June sent her messengers early. Every blade of grass that pushed its way through the brown earth, every bursting lilac bud or ambitious maple, spoke to Marian of June. Returning birds warbled the story and the world rejoiced. Teachers and pupils alike talked of June until it seemed to Marian that all nature and educational institutions had but one object, and that was to welcome June. She dreaded it. June meant Aunt Amelia and the end of all happiness. Yet Marian was only one. Ninety-nine other girls were looking eagerly forward to the close of school. They talked of it everywhere and at all hours.
It was the one subject of conversation in which Marian had no share, one joy beyond her grasp. Try hard as she would, Marian couldn't pretend to be glad she was going home. That was a game for which she felt no enthusiasm. The mother, the little sister and the baby brothers in the golden frames would soon be gone, and gone forever. "We're all going back West just as soon as school closes," Florence had told her. "Next winter we will be home."
Nor was that all that Florence told Marian. She pictured the beautiful home in the West in the midst of her father's broad lands. She described her room, all sunshine and comfort, and the great house echoing with music and laughter. She told Marian of the gardens and the stables, of the horses, ponies and many pets. She described the river and the hills and the mountain peaks beyond. Florence almost forgot the presence of her wide eyed roommate in telling of the holiday celebrations at home and of the wondrous glory of the annual Christmas tree. Best of all, Florence spoke tenderly of her mother and her voice grew tender in speaking of the woman who never scolded but was always gentle and kind; the beautiful mother with the bright, gold hair. Florence had so much to say about the little sister, brother and the baby, that Marian felt as if she knew them all.
Thus it was that Florence Weston was going home and Marian Lee was returning to Aunt Amelia. Miss Smith understood all about it and it grieved her. She had seen Aunt Amelia and that was enough. She didn't wonder that Marian's eyes grew sad and wistful as the days lengthened. At last Miss Virginia Smith thought of a way to win smiles from Marian. The botany class had been offered a prize. A railroad president, interested in the school had promised ten dollars in gold to the member of the botany class who made the best herbarium. Marian might not win the prize, but it would give her pleasure to try. She would have something more agreeable to think of than Aunt Amelia.
It was with some difficulty that Miss Smith obtained permission from the principal for Marian to enter the class, and but for the experience in the country school, the objection that Marian was too young would have barred her out. Miss Smith was right. Marian was delighted and for hours at a time Aunt Amelia vanished from her thoughts. The members of the botany class were surprised that such a little girl learned hard lessons so easily, but Miss Smith only laughed.
In the beginning when the spring flowers came and every wayside bloom suggested a specimen, fully half the class intended to win the prize, Marian among the number. One by one the contestants dropped out as the weeks passed, leaving Marian with perhaps half a dozen rivals. At that early day, Miss Virginia Smith, who had no favorites, rejoiced secretly in the belief that Marian would win the prize. The commonest weed became beautiful beneath her hands and the number of specimens she found on the school grounds alone, exceeded all previous records. There was never so much as a leaf carelessly pressed among Marian's specimens. At last the child began to believe the prize would be hers and for the first time, going home lost its terrors.
If she won the prize, Uncle George would be proud of her and she would be happy. Finally Marian wrote to her uncle, telling him of the glories of commencement week. She was to recite "The Witch's Daughter" at the entertainment, to take part in the operetta and to sing commencement morning with three other little girls. More than that, she was sure to win the prize, even her rivals admitted it. "Now Uncle George," the letter proceeded, "please be sure and come because I want somebody that is my relation to be here. Florence Weston says her father would come from Honolulu to see her win a prize, so please come, Uncle George, or maybe Florence will think nobody cares for me."
Marian was scarcely prepared to receive the answer that came to her letter from Aunt Amelia. Uncle George was too busy a man to take so long a journey for nothing. Aunt Amelia would come the day after commencement and pack Marian's trunk. So far as winning the prize was concerned, Uncle George expected Marian to win a prize if one were offered. That was a small way to show her gratitude for all that had been done for her. The child lost the letter. Janey C. Hopkins found and read it. Before sunset every one of the ninety-nine knew the contents. When night settled down upon the school, one hundred girls were thinking of Aunt Amelia, one in tears, the ninety-nine with indignation.
The following morning Marian replied to her aunt's letter, begging to be allowed to go home with Dolly Russel and her mother, and assuring Aunt Amelia that she could pack her own trunk. Even that request was denied. Aunt Amelia would call for Marian the day after commencement and she wished to hear nothing further on the subject. She might have heard more had she not been beyond sound of the ninety-nine voices. Marian was too crushed for words. That is, she was crushed for a day. Her spirits revived as commencement week drew near and Miss Smith and the ninety-nine did so much to make her forget everything unpleasant. Marian couldn't understand why the girls were so kind nor why Janey C. Hopkins took a sudden interest in her happiness. The Sunday before commencement Marian wore Janey's prettiest gown to church. It was rather large for Marian but neither she nor Janey found that an objection. Miss Smith approved and Sunday was a bright day for Aunt Amelia's little niece.