“He is a lucky boy,” said Dollie, thoughtfully. “Why, just think, only a few months ago he was a waif in a county poor farm! Oh, how lucky it was that he ran away. It is not every poor orphan that has such good fortune.”
“And I am so glad that I helped him to escape,” said her sister, laughing. “I gave him five dollars the night he ran away—it was all I had, for I was only a country girl then, and you know, sister, that our father did not give us much money.”
“Poor old dad,” said Dollie, with the tears springing to her eyes. “He has been a different man since you paid off the mortgage on the farm, Marion. Mother says he is so gentle that we would hardly know him.”
This illusion to one of Marion’s many noble deeds made the fair girl very happy. It had been the greatest pleasure of her life to be able to pay off that mortgage on the homestead.
“It is a pity that it took him so long to learn that ‘gentleness is best,’” she said, sadly. “Poor old father would have been far happier if he had learned it earlier. We would have all been happier in our life in the country.”
They sat and talked a little while longer, then retired for a few hours’ rest before daylight.
When Marion awoke in the morning she found that Ralph had already bought the morning papers, and, as usual, she glanced them over before eating her breakfast.
“Oh, how kind the critics are to me,” she said as she read the notice of her singing in the Star. “And how dreadfully they speak of Carlotta, saying that her voice has lost its freshness, and all that sort of thing, I can hardly blame the woman for disliking me.”
“Well, she has let her professional jealousy go too far,” said Ralph, hotly. “When she tries such tricks as she did last night it is high time she was halted.”
“I guess Mr. Graham will read her a lecture to-day,” said Marion, slowly, “It remains to be seen what effect it has upon her.”