"What book was it?" Miss Graham inquired curiously, glancing at the volume Marjorie was still holding in her hand.
"It's called 'The Friendship of Anne,' and it's one of those in that box Father had sent from Albuquerque. It's all about a big boarding-school full of girls, and the good times they had there, but somehow it set me thinking, and—and, I don't know why, perhaps because it's been so hot and still all day, but I began to feel as if I wanted to cry, and so I came out here to have it out." Suddenly Marjorie dropped her head in her aunt's lap, with a sob.
For a moment Miss Graham was silent. She stroked the soft, fluffy hair with her thin fingers, and a look of comprehension came into her face. When she spoke her voice was very gentle.
"I understand, little girl," she said tenderly. "You haven't said much about it, but I know it was a big disappointment that Father couldn't afford to send you to school at Albuquerque this winter. It was a disappointment to all of us, much as we should have missed you, but it is one of those things everybody has to bear sometimes."
"I know it," said Marjorie, checking her tears, and making a great effort to speak cheerfully. "It wasn't poor Father's fault that so many of the cattle died this year, or that the drought spoiled the alfalfa crop. I try to think that perhaps it's all for the best, and that if I really left you all, and went away to school, I might have died of homesickness. But when I read that story, and thought of all the people and things there are in the world that I've never seen, it was just a little bit hard to feel cheerful. Mother teaches me all she can, and so do you and Father, but I'm fourteen and a half, and I hate to think of growing up without any real education. If I were well educated, I might teach, and be a real help to you all, but there isn't anything I can do now but just sit still and make the best of things."
"Making the best of things is what we all have to do," said Miss Graham, smiling rather sadly. "You do it very well, too, Marjorie dear. Your father and I were talking last evening of how bravely you have borne this disappointment. We all realize what it has meant to you, but we are not a family who are much given to talking about our troubles."
"I know we're not," said Marjorie, "and I'm glad of it. How uncomfortable it would be if you and Mother were always saying you were sorry for each other, and if Father looked solemn every time a cow died. I should hate to be condoled with, and treated as if I needed pity, but still I can't help wishing sometimes that I could do some of the things other girls do. Why, just think, Aunt Jessie, I've never had a friend of my own age in my life. I've never been on a train, or seen a city since I can remember."
Miss Graham continued to stroke the fluffy hair, and a troubled look came into her eyes.
"I understand, dear," she said, "and I don't blame you in the least. I know the feelings of loneliness and longing too well for that."
"Do you really, Aunt Jessie?" questioned Marjorie, looking up in surprise. "I didn't suppose you ever longed for anything; you're such an angel of patience. I suppose it's wrong, but I can't help being glad you do, though, because it makes it so much easier to explain things to you. I can't bear to have Father and Mother think I'm not perfectly happy and contented; it makes Father look so sad, and I know Mother worries about my education. I never thought of it before, but you were a girl, too, when you first came here, weren't you?"