LITMIR.BIZ

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and pray every night and give to missions,” said Una.

      “It sounds like a large order,” said Mary. “Anything else?”

      “You must ask God to forgive the sins you’ve committed.

      “But I’ve never com — committed any,” said Mary. “What’s a sin any way?”

      “Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does. Did you never tell a lie?”

      “Heaps of ‘em,” said Mary.

      “That’s a dreadful sin,” said Una solemnly.

      “Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Mary, “that I’d be sent to hell for telling a lie now and then? Why, I HAD to. Mr. Wiley would have broken every bone in my body one time if I hadn’t told him a lie. Lies have saved me many a whack, I can tell you.”

      Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties for her to solve. She shuddered as she thought of being cruelly whipped. Very likely she would have lied too. She squeezed Mary’s little calloused hand.

      “Is that the only dress you’ve got?” asked Faith, whose joyous nature refused to dwell on disagreeable subjects.

      “I just put on this dress because it was no good,” cried Mary flushing. “Mrs. Wiley’d bought my clothes and I wasn’t going to be beholden to her for anything. And I’m honest. If I was going to run away I wasn’t going to take what belong to HER that was worth anything. When I grow up I’m going to have a blue sating dress. Your own clothes don’t look so stylish. I thought ministers’ children were always dressed up.”

      It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on some points. But there was a queer, wild charm about her which captivated them all. She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to the Blythes as “a friend of ours from over-harbour who is visiting us.” The Blythes accepted her unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly respectable now. After dinner — through which Aunt Martha had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while brooding his Sunday sermon — Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of her dresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing. With her hair neatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an acceptable playmate, for she knew several new and exciting games, and her conversation lacked not spice. In fact, some of her expressions made Nan and Di look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure what their mother would have thought of her, but they knew quite well what Susan would. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be all right.

      When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary should sleep.

      “We can’t put her in the spare room, you know,” said Faith perplexedly to Una.

      “I haven’t got anything in my head,” cried Mary in an injured tone.

      “Oh, I didn’t mean THAT,” protested Faith. “The spare room is all torn up. The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tick and made a nest in it. We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisher from Charlottetown there to sleep last week. HE soon found it out. Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on the study lounge. Aunt Martha hasn’t had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she says; so NOBODY can sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are. And our room is so small, and the bed so small you can’t sleep with us.”

      “I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you’ll lend me a quilt,” said Mary philosophically. “It was kind of chilly last night, but ‘cept for that I’ve had worse beds.”

      “Oh, no, no, you mustn’t do that,” said Una. “I’ve thought of a plan, Faith. You know that little trestle bed in the garret room, with the old mattress on it, that the last minister left there? Let’s take up the spare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed there. You won’t mind sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? It’s just above our room.”

      “Any place’ll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleep in my life. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley’s. The roof leaked rain in the summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was a straw tick on the floor. You won’t find me a mite huffy about where I sleep.”

      The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gable end partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of the dainty hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had once so proudly made for her spare-room, and which still survived Aunt Martha’s uncertain washings. The good nights were said and silence fell over the manse. Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound in the room just above that made her sit up suddenly.

      “Listen, Faith — Mary’s crying,” she whispered. Faith replied not, being already asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made her way in her little white gown down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking floor gave ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner room all was moonlit silence and the trestle bed showed only a hump in the middle.

      “Mary,” whispered Una.

      There was no response.

      Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. “Mary, I know you are crying. I heard you. Are you lonesome?”

      Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing.

      “Let me in beside you. I’m cold,” said Una shivering in the chilly air, for the little garret window was open and the keen breath of the north shore at night blew in.

      Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside her.

      “NOW you won’t be lonesome. We shouldn’t have left you here alone the first night.”

      “I wasn’t lonesome,” sniffed Mary.

      “What were you crying for then?”

      “Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone. I thought of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley — and of being licked for running away — and — and — and of going to hell for telling lies. It all worried me something scandalous.”

      “Oh, Mary,” said poor Una in distress. “I don’t believe God will send you to hell for telling lies when you didn’t know it was wrong. He COULDN’T. Why, He’s kind and good. Of course, you mustn’t tell any more now that you know it’s wrong.”

      “If I can’t tell lies what’s to become of me?” said Mary with a sob. “YOU don’t understand. You don’t know anything about it. You’ve got a home and a kind father — though it does seem to me that he isn’t more’n about half there. But anyway he doesn’t lick you, and you get enough to eat such as it is — though that old aunt of yours doesn’t know ANYTHING about cooking. Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling ‘sif I’d enough to eat. I’ve been knocked about all of my life, ‘cept for the two years I was at the asylum. They didn’t lick me there and it wasn’t too bad, though the matron was cross. She always looked ready to bite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that’s what SHE is, and I’m just scared stiff when I think of going back to her.”

      “Perhaps you won’t have to. Perhaps we’ll be able to think of a way out. Let’s both ask God to keep you from having to go back to Mrs. Wiley. You say your prayers, don’t you Mary?”

      “Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme ‘fore I get into bed,” said Mary indifferently. “I never thought of asking for anything in particular though. Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about me so I didn’t s’pose God would. He MIGHT take more trouble for you, seeing you’re a minister’s daughter.”

      “He’d take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I’m sure,” said Una. “It doesn’t matter whose child you are. You just ask Him — and I will, too.”

      “All right,” agreed Mary. “It won’t do any harm if it doesn’t do much good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you wouldn’t think God would want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won’t cry any more about it. This is a big sight better’n last night down in that old barn, with the mice

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