Marjorie's Busy Days Part 18

"No, Father," said Marjorie, lifting her clear, honest eyes to his. "I thought I was cowardly to be so afraid of the dark. But I knew it wasn't mischief, and I didn't think it was wrong. Why was it wrong?"

"I'm not sure I can explain, if you don't see it for yourself. But it is not right to go alone to a place where there may be unseen or unknown dangers."

"But, Father, in our own schoolhouse? Where we go every day? What harm could be there?"

"My child, it is not right for any one to go into an untenanted building, alone, in the dark. And especially it is not right for a little girl of twelve. Now, whether you understand this or not, you must remember it, and _never_ do such a thing again."

"Oh, Father, indeed I'll never forget that old speller again."

"No; next time you'll do some other ridiculous, unexpected thing, and then say, 'I didn't know it was wrong.' Marjorie, you don't seem to have good common-sense about these things."

"That's what grandma used to say," said Midge, cheerfully. "Perhaps I'll learn, as I grow up, Father."

"I hope you will, my dear. And now, I'm not going to punish you for this performance, for I see you honestly meant no wrong, but I do positively forbid you to go out alone after dark without permission; no matter _what_ may be the exceptional occasion. Will you remember that?"

"Yes, indeed! That isn't hard to remember. And I've never wanted to before, and I don't believe I'll ever want to again, until I'm grown up.

Do you?"

"You're a funny child, Midget," said her father, looking at her quizzically. "But, do you know, I rather like you; and I suppose you get your spirit of adventure and daring from me. Your Mother is most timid and conventional. What do you s'pose she'll say to all this, Mopsy mine?"

"Why, as you think it was wrong, I s'pose she'll think so, too. I just _can't_ make it seem wrong, myself, but as you say it was, why, of course it must have been, and I promise never to do it again. Now, if you've finished your coffee, shall we begin to spell?"

"Yes, come on. Since you have the book, we must make the most of our time."

An hour of hard work followed. Mr. Maynard drilled Marjorie over and over on the most difficult words, and reviewed the back lessons, until he said he believed she could spell down Noah Webster himself.

"And you must admit, Father," said Marjorie, as they closed the book at last, "that it's a good thing I did get my speller last night, for I had a whole hour's study on it, and besides I didn't have to go over there for it this morning."

"It would have been a better thing, my child, if you had remembered it in the first place."

"Oh, yes, of course. But that was a mistake. I suppose everybody makes mistakes sometimes."

"I suppose they do. The proper thing is to learn by our mistakes what is right and what is wrong. Now the next time you are moved to do anything as unusual as that, ask some one who knows, whether you'd better do it or not. Now, here's Mother, we'll put the case to her."

In a few words, Mr. Maynard told his wife about Marjorie's escapade.

"My little girl!" cried Mrs. Maynard, catching Marjorie in her arms.

"Why, Midget, darling, how _could_ you do such a dreadful thing? Oh, thank Heaven, I have you safe at home again!"

Marjorie stared. Here was a new view of the case. Her mother seemed to think that she had been in danger rather than in mischief.

"Oh," went on Mrs. Maynard, still shuddering, "my precious child, alone in that great empty building!"

"Why, Mother," said Marjorie, kissing her tears away, "that was just it.

An empty building couldn't hurt me! Do you think I was naughty?"

"Oh, I don't know whether you were naughty, or not; I'm so glad to have you safe and sound in my arms."

"I'll never do it again, Mother."

"Do it again? Well, I rather think you won't! I shall never leave you alone again. I felt all the time I oughtn't to go off and leave you children last night."

"Nonsense, my dear," said Mr. Maynard, "the children must be taught self-reliance. But we'll talk this matter over some other time.

Marjorie, you'll be late to school if you're not careful. And listen to me, my child. I don't want you to tell any one of what you did last evening. It is something that it is better to keep quiet about. Do you understand? This is a positive command. Don't ask me why, just promise to say nothing about it to your playmates or any one. No one knows of it at present, but your mother, Kingdon, and myself. I prefer that no one else should know. Will you remember this?"

"Yes, Father; can't I just tell Gladys?"

Mr. Maynard smiled.

"Marjorie, you are impossible!" he said. "Now, listen! I said tell _no one_! Is Gladys any one?"

"Yes, Father, she is."

"Very well, then don't tell her. Tell no one at all. Promise me."

"I promise," said Midget, earnestly, and then she kissed her parents and ran away to school.

Kingdon had also been bidden not to tell of Marjorie's escapade, and so it was never heard of outside the family.

When it was time for the spelling-match, Marjorie put away her books, and sat waiting, with folded arms and a smiling face.

Miss Lawrence was surprised, for the child usually was worried and anxious in spelling cla.s.s.

Two captains were chosen, and these two selected the pupils, one by one, to be their aids.

Marjorie was never chosen until toward the last, for though everybody loved her, yet her inability to spell was known by all, and she was not a desirable a.s.sistant in a match.

But at last her name was called, and she demurely took her place near the foot of the line on one side.

Gladys was on the other side, near the head. She was a good speller, and rarely made a mistake.

Miss Lawrence began to give out the words, and the children spelled away blithely. Now and then one would miss and another would go above.

To everybody's surprise, Marjorie began to work her way up toward the head of her line. She spelled correctly words that the others missed, and with a happy smile went along up the line.

At last the "spelling down" began. This meant that whoever missed a word must go to his seat, leaving only those standing who did not miss any word.

One by one the crestfallen unsuccessful ones went to their seats, and, to the amazement of all, Marjorie remained standing. At last, there were but six left in the match.

"Macaroni," said Miss Lawrence.

"M-a-c-c-a-r-o-n-i," said Jack Norton, and regretfully Miss Lawrence told him he must sit down.

Three more spelled the word wrongly, and then it was Marjorie's turn:

"M-a-c-a-r-o-n-i," said she, triumphantly, remembering her father's remark that there were no double letters in it.

Miss Lawrence looked astounded. Now there were left only Marjorie and Gladys, one on either side of the room. It was an unfortunate situation, for so fond were the girls of each other that each would almost rather fail herself than to have her friend fail.