Self-deception was not one of Marion’s faults; she grew so quickly regretful for what had happened, that when Miss Ashton came to her door, troubled by the girl’s tired look on her arrival, she found her with red eyes and a swollen face.
“Tell me all about it,” she said, taking no notice of her tears, but turning up the gas to make the room more cheerful.
“What has gone wrong? Wasn’t your aunt glad to see you? Are you sick? Fancy I am mother, and tell me the whole story.”
She took Marion’s hand in hers, drew the young girl close to her, and stroked the bonnie brown hair with a loving mother’s touch.
“It’s all my blame,” said Marion, her voice trembling as she spoke. “My aunt was as kind as she could be, but it was so lonely, and”—with a smile now—“so noisy there.” 164
“Noisy!” repeated Miss Ashton.
“Yes, ma’am; there were ghosts and rats and mice; the very house groaned and shook, and the wind came howling down from the mountains, and all the windows rattled.”
Miss Ashton only laughed; but when Marion went on to tell the story of her leaving the house against her aunt’s wishes, she looked very sober.
She had no knowledge of Aunt Betty’s circumstances, surroundings, or character, but she knew well the nature of country roads during a New England winter. She thought from Marion’s own account that her homesickness had made her obstinate and unreasonable, and that her coming away must have been a source of anxiety to her aunt, while she was unable to prevent it.
“Marion,” she said at last, “didn’t you think more of yourself than of your aunt?”