“I don’t know what to do,” said poor Marion. “Couldn’t I stay here?”
“I’d have to lock you in,” said the man, doubtfully. “Aint you got no place to go to?”
“No; but I don’t mind staying if you will let me; I can crochet, and that will keep me from getting lonesome.”
“But I’ll have to put out the lights; there’s orders against leaving a light.”
Being shut up alone in the dark was not a pleasant prospect, but Marion was resolved for Elfie’s sake to shrink from nothing. Still, it was a pale little face with trembling lips that the station-master glanced at as with a lantern in his hand he went out of the door.
He was not a sympathetic man, but the sight made him say cheerily:
“Well, sis, I’ll come back a little ahead of time so’s to shorten up the hours for you. If I had a home of my own I’d offer to take you along with me, but I’m one of ten fellows in a mill boarding-house, an’ it aint no place for a girl.”
Marion tried to thank him, but her voice didn’t seem very steady. She was very near to tears, but she wouldn’t let them come.
“Look a-here, Mary Ann,” she said, dropping into the unconventional form of speech which had once made her so laughed at, “you aint such a great account that there’s anyone comin’ here a purpose to bother you, an’ the Lord aint goin’ to give up lookin’ after you just ’cause the lights is out.”
Then kneeling down on the hard floor in front of one of the seats Marion prayed long and earnestly for success on her mission, for guidance and care.