"Where am I going and who is going with me?" demanded the child, beginning to tremble so she could scarcely stand.
"I shall accompany you," replied Aunt Amelia, "and it makes no difference where you are going. You will know soon enough."
Marian shot a grateful look towards Ella, who was sobbing in a corner. But for the little cousin's assurance, Marian would have believed she was about to start for the long dreaded reform school. Nevertheless it was a shocking thing to be suddenly torn from every familiar sight and to be going so blindly into the unknown. Marian looked appealingly at Aunt Amelia and Uncle George before she broke down and cried. Aunt Amelia's face was stony, Uncle George looked cross and annoyed. Marian's grief became wild and despairing.
"I wish I could have my mother's picture to take with me," she sobbed, "I wish I could."
"That's a reasonable request and you shall have it," said Uncle George.
"It will be time enough when she is older," Aunt Amelia put in, while Marian held her breath. Would she get the picture or not? A word might ruin her chances, so she kept still, trying hard to smother her sobs.
"Are you going for the picture or shall I?" demanded Uncle George. Aunt Amelia went.
Marian was disappointed when she saw the small photograph of her father and mother. She wished for the face in the oval frame. She would have been more disappointed had she never seen the photograph, because instead of giving it to the child or allowing her to look at the picture, Aunt Amelia wrapped it in a piece of paper and put it in her own satchel.
Outside in the cool, silent night, Marian stopped crying. There was comfort in the steadily shining stars. During the first long hours on the sleeping car, Marian tossed, tumbled and wondered where she was going. Asleep she dreamed of reform school: awake she feared dreams might come true. When trains rushed by in the darkness the child was frightened and shivered at the thought of wrecks. At last she raised her curtain and watched the stars. Repeating over and over one verse of the poem she had recited the last day of school in the country, she fell peacefully asleep. There were no more troubled dreams nor startled awakenings. When Marian opened her eyes in the morning, the verse still haunted her memory.
"I know not where His islands
Lift their fronded palms in air,
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care."