Dorothy led the way to the guest-room. It was a pretty room near Miss Ashton’s, kept for the convenience of entertaining guests. Dorothy threw open the window-blinds, and Marion saw before her a New England village. 12
In the near distance rose hill upon hill, their sides covered with elegant residences, and what she thought were palaces, crowning their tops. The light of this September twilight covered them with a mantle of gold, lit up the broad river that ran at the base of the hills like a translucent band, turned the tall chimneys of factories in the adjacent city, usually so disfiguring, into minarets, blazing with rich Oriental coloring.
“Is it not beautiful?” Dorothy asked, slipping her arm around Marion’s waist, and drawing her nearer the window; “we have it always—always to look at, morning, noon, and night, and it is never the same twice. I was born and brought up by the sea, and I’ve been here three years, yet I love it better and better every day.”
“I was born and brought up on the prairies.”
“The land seas,” added Dorothy. “How strange they must be! I would like to see the prairies.
“The grand thing about this is, it belongs to you all the time you stay here, just as much as if you really owned it; nobody can take it from you; there it is, and there it must remain. That is the reason they built our academy on this high hill, so it should be ours, a part of our education,—‘Grow into us,’ Miss Ashton says, and it does.”
While they stood looking at it the twilight deepened; the golden flush faded away. Over hill and river crept the shadows of the night, and out from the adjoining corridor sounded a loud gong, the first 13 one Marion had ever heard. She turned a frightened face toward Dorothy, who said, “Our gong; study hours begin now, so I must go: I shall see you to-morrow.” Then she hurried away, and Marion was left alone; but she had hardly gone, before there was a gentle tap upon her door, then it opened, and Miss Benton, one of the teachers, came in.
“What, all alone in the dark! That’s lonely for a new pupil. Let me light your gas, and then I will take you down to tea; you must be very hungry.”
Her voice was kind, and her manner gentle. She lighted the gas, then slipped Marion’s arm into hers, and took her through the long, bright corridors to the dining-hall. Here, a pleasant-faced matron came to meet her. She gave her a seat at a table, which she told her would be hers permanently, then seated herself by Marion’s side and talked to her cheerfully as she ate. It was all so homelike; every one she had met was kind and friendly. It would be her own fault certainly if she were not contented and happy here, Marion thought.
Tea over, she tried to find her way alone back to her room, but there were corridors leading to stairs, corridors leading to recitation rooms, corridors leading to a large hall dimly lighted, corridors leading everywhere but where she wanted to go, and, for a wonder, no one to be seen of whom she could ask direction. There was something so ludicrous in the situation, that every now and then Marion burst into a merry little laugh; and after a time one of her 14 laughs was echoed, and, turning, she saw a short, fat little woman with very light hair, and light blue eyes, who came directly to her, holding up two small hands and laughing.