"WAXERATION."
Still, in spite of cheeses, beehives, bossies, and kittens, I had many lonesome hours, and sometimes cried after I went to bed. Samantha must have known it, for I slept with her; I was afraid to sleep alone.
There were times when I thought I would start off secretly, and go home on foot. I asked the hired man how long he supposed it would take a little girl to walk to Willowbrook, and what were the chances of her getting lost if she should try it? I thought I spoke in such a guarded way that Seth would not have the least idea what I meant; but he must have been very quick-witted, for he understood in a minute. He did not let me know it, though, and only answered coolly,—
"Wal, I should think now it would take her about a week's steady travel, and no knowing but she'd starve to death on the road. Why, you hain't heerd of a little gal that thinks of such a thing, I hope?"
"No; I don't see many little girls," said I, with a dismal sigh; "they don't have anything here but bossies and horses."
I did not know, till Seth nipped it in the bud, what a sweet hope I had been cherishing. Should I truly starve to death if I took my little cheese in a basket on my arm, and some doughnuts and turn-overs? But no, it would be stealing to take things out of cousin Lydia's cupboard, and run off with them. I would rather stay at Bloomingdale and suffer, than be a thief.
I know now that Seth told cousin Lydia what I said to him, and her kind heart was touched. I am sure she must have had a hard time with me, for she knew nothing about children, and was as busy as she could be with her dairy and her "fall work." I ought not to have been so unhappy. Some children at that age, with so much done for their amusement, would have felt perfectly contented; but I had naturally a restless disposition, and wanted, as Ned said, "sumpin diffunt."
Ah, Horace! very gallant in you to say I have "got bravely over it." Thank you, dear; I hope I have, to some degree; still I might have got over it much younger if I had only tried a little harder. A child of seven is old enough to be grateful to its friends, when they do all they can for its comfort and pleasure.
Cousin Lydia wrote mother about my state of mind; and it troubled her. She talked with Madam Allen, who was always full of plans. Madam thought a minute, and then said,—
"Poor Marjie, we can't have her homesick. Do you suppose she would like to have Ruphelle go there and stay with her?"