Miss Ashton gave her the number of her room in the third corridor, telling her that the same young lady she had seen on the previous night was waiting to receive her.
When, after some difficulty, she found her way there, the door was opened by Dorothy, who had been watching for her.
“This is our all-together parlor,” she said. “Gladys, you know, and Susan,—this is my cousin, Susan Downer. We are glad to have you with us.”
It was a simple welcome, but it was hearty, and we all know how much that means.
Gladys led her to the window. “Come here first,” she said, “and look out.”
It was the same view she had seen from the guest-room the night before, only now it was soft and tender in the light of a half-clouded autumn sun.
“My father said, when he saw it, it ought to make us better, nobler, and happier to have this to look at. That was asking a great deal, was not it? because, you see, we get used to it. But there’s the sea; you know how the sea looks, never the same twice; because it’s still and full of ripples to-day, you don’t know but the waves will be tumbling over Judith’s Woe to-morrow.”
“I never saw the ocean,” said Marion. “That is one of the great things I have come to the East to see.”
“Never saw the ocean?” repeated Gladys, looking at Marion as curiously as if she had told her she 26 never saw the sun. “Oh, what a treat you have before you! I almost envy you. This is well enough for a landscape, but the seascapes leave you nothing to desire. Now, come to our room. You are to chum with me, and we will be awful good and kind to each other, won’t we?”
“How happy I shall be here!” was Marion’s answer, as she looked around the rooms. “I wish my mother could see it all!”