“Neither do I,” said Marion with a sudden dab at the fire that sent the sparks flying. “I—I suppose we ought to want her identity to be discovered, want her returned to her people, but she’s come to mean so much to us. She’s a dashing little bit of sunshine. This place,” her eyes swept the bare brown walls, “this place would seem dreary without her.”
“Marion,” said Florence, “will we be able to elect our trustee?”
“I don’t know.”
“Al Finley and Moze Berkhart taught the school last year. They taught a month or two; then when it got cold they discouraged the children all they could, and when finally no one came they rode up and looked in every day, then rode home again, and drew their pay just the same.”
“We wouldn’t do that.”
“No, we wouldn’t. We’d manage somehow.”
“Marion,” said Florence after they had sat in silence for some time, their arms around each other, “this building belongs to Mrs. McAlpin, doesn’t it?”
“Surely. She bought it.”
“And everything inside belongs to her?”
“I suppose so.”