Lily promised and fully meant to keep her word, but, as Mrs. Abbott had learned by past experience, Lily had two failings which sometimes made her a little trying to those who loved her most: her disposition to seek amusement, even if she had to do it at a friend’s expense, and her easy nature, made her too easily led away from her good intentions. But she had of late struggled with these besetting sins, as she called them herself, and her teacher hoped they would at last disappear.
No one’s general average in the week’s report was ever higher than Mary Ann’s. She was not only a remarkably quick student, but she appreciated, more than any one else in the school, the great blessing of an education. Gratitude to Mrs. Abbott was another spur to industry, and her studiousness and desire to learn made her a favorite with the teachers.
She still had much to bear from the scholars, who were thoughtlessly cruel, and laughed at her many blunders; but their causes of merriment were gradually disappearing, for Mary Ann was so well aware of her defects and so watchful to correct them that Mrs. Abbott told her one day, finding her plunged in despair, that before long, with her great desire for improvement and the rough process of polishing she was enduring, she would acquire the agreeable manner of speech and action she admired in the other girls.
“O, you are so kind to me, ma’am,” said grateful Mary Ann, “and I wisht you’d gimme—give me, I mean—something to do for you. You said to my mother there was work I could do here.”
“I have changed my mind about that. If I were to let you do the light service I had expected to I fear the others would be less likely to treat you as an equal, and, dear, I think you have enough to struggle against without that drawback. I have decided to ask of you something much more serious and important than I had intended. To explain myself, I must tell you something in strict confidence; I am quite sure I may trust you.”
Mary Ann began to pledge her solemn word in the strong language in which she had been accustomed to hear such assertions made; but Mrs. Abbott stopped her, saying:
“One look at your face is all I need to show me you can keep a secret.”
The honest eyes she looked into were shining with pleasure, and Mrs. Abbott smiled lovingly at the girl as, taking her little hard hand in her own, she told the pitiful story of Ethel’s mother’s short, sad life.
She had become engaged while her father was abroad, having left her in the care of a friend who proved very reckless of the trust, to a man in every way unworthy of her. Mr. Bellamy, on his return, at first refused his consent, but Ethel, always delicate, seemed unable to bear disappointment, and, having no actual proof of Mr. Gray’s unworthiness, his fears for her health made him consent to their marriage. There were two years of sad experience, and then Mr. Bellamy, learning of wrongs which had been carefully concealed from him and which fully justified the severest measures, insisted upon a legal separation, and brought Mrs. Gray and her little daughter back to his own home in San Francisco. Soon the older Ethel died, leaving her baby Elfie to her grandfather’s care.
“To guard against interference he legally adopted Elfie, giving her his own name, and he never means to have her know, if it can be helped, that she has a father living.”