"I'll tell her to write to you," promised Miss Dorothy.

"Oh, good! I never have letters from any one but papa, and he writes only once a year. I wish he would write oftener, for his letters are so nice, and I do love him, though I haven't seen him since I was a baby."

"Perhaps if he knew you really cared so much to hear, he would write. Why don't you send him a letter and tell him?"

"Oh, but just see what a fist I make at writing. I will tell him as soon as I can write better, although," she added with a sigh, "that seems a long time to wait."

Miss Dorothy was thoughtfully silent for a few minutes. "I will tell you what," she said presently. "I have a small typewriting machine which I will teach you how to use. It is very simple, and you spell so nicely that it will be no time before you could manage a perfectly legible letter to your father."

"Oh, Miss Dorothy, I do love you," cried Marian. "That is such a delightful idea. What an angelic sister Patty has."

Miss Dorothy laughed. "What a funny little girl you are. I am glad, however, that you didn't say: How awfully nice! I am afraid that is what Patty would have said, but she hasn't had the advantage of a.s.sociating with only scholarly people like your grandparents, and so she talks as her brothers and sisters do."

"I should think she would be awfully happy to have so many brothers and sisters," remarked Marian.

"Oh, dear, see what example does," exclaimed Miss Dorothy. "You said awfully happy and I never heard you say awfully anything before.

I'll tell you what we'll do; whenever you hear me saying awfully nice or awfully horrid you tell me, and I'll do the same by you. Is it a bargain?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, Miss Dorothy, but I'm afraid I should feel queer to correct you."

"I am not perfect, my dear," said Miss Dorothy gravely, "not any more than the rest of humanity. I shouldn't expect you to correct me ordinarily, but this is a habit I want to get out of, and that I do not want you to get into, so we shall be a mutual help, you see, and you will be doing me a favor by reminding me."

"Then I'll try to do it. How shall I tell you when other people are around? It would sound queer if I said: Oh, Miss Dorothy, you said awfully."

"So it would, you little wiseacre. You can touch me on the elbow and then put your finger on your lip, and I will understand, and I will do the same when you say it."

Marian was perfectly satisfied at this. "I am so glad you are here,"

she sighed. "I feel lots more faith growing. I shall soon be very--is it faithful I ought to say?"

"Well, not exactly in the sense you mean, though really it ought to be that faithful means full of faith; as it is it means trustworthy and devoted to the performance of duties and things. I think the old meaning when one wanted to say that a person was full of faith was faithful, but the original sense of many words has been lost."

"When shall I begin with the typewriter?" asked Marian, changing the subject.

"We can begin this afternoon. I have unpacked and oiled it, so it is all ready to use."

"How soon do you think I can send a letter to papa?"

"If you are industrious and painstaking I should say you could do it in a week."

"Oh, that's not long, and he will get it long before Christmas, won't he?"

"Yes, indeed! I should think in ten days or two weeks at the furthest."

"I should like to send him something for Christmas. I never did send him anything. Don't you think it would be nice to do it?"

"I think it would be awfully nice."

Marian gave her teacher's arm a gentle shake and put her finger to her lip.

Miss Dorothy looked at her a little puzzled, then she understood.

"Oh, I said awfully, didn't I? Thank you, dearie, for reminding me.

What should you like to send your father?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think. You'll help me to think, won't you?"

"Indeed I will, if you want me to. I should think almost anything you could send would please him, for, after all, it is the thought that counts, not the thing itself."

"Oh, but I do think things count, and--Miss Dorothy, you won't tell if I ask him not to send me money."

"Not money? I think that it's rather a nice thing to have, for then you can buy whatever you like."

"You couldn't if you were I."

"Why not?"

"Because. You won't say anything about it to the grans?" Marian's voice dropped to a whisper. "When papa sends me money it always goes to the missions; it is my sacrifice, Grandma says. As long as I don't have the money really in my hands, it doesn't so much matter, but it would matter if I had to go without b.u.t.ter or perhaps sweet things, like dessert or cake for a whole month. That is what would happen if I said I would rather have the money myself than let the missionaries have it. Oh, I suppose it is all right," she added quickly, "and no doubt I am a hardened sinner, but I would like a real Christmas gift."

"Did you never have one?" asked Miss Dorothy, with pity and surprise in her voice.

"Not a really one, except from Mrs. Hunt; she gave me a sweet little pincushion last year, and a whole bag full of cakes and goodies. I enjoyed them very much."

"Did your grandparents give you nothing at all?"

"Oh, yes. I had a new hat, and gloves and handkerchiefs. I was pleased to have them of course, but I would like something real Christma.s.sy and--and--foolish."

"You blessed child, of course you would," and Miss Dorothy mentally determined that the next Christmas should provide something real Christma.s.sy for her little companion.

Marian was silent for a while then she asked, "Do you have a Christmas tree at your house?"

"Why, yes, always, and we all hang up our stocking from father down to Patty. Don't you?"

"No, I never did, and I never had a tree."

"Why, you poor dear child," exclaimed Miss Dorothy surprised out of discretion.

"There doesn't any one know how much I want it," said Marian in part excuse, "but I do. That is what I meant about moving mountains and faith. Do you believe if I had a great deal of faith, as sharp and strong as a mustard seed that the Lord would send me a tree? I never told any one before about it, but you understand better than Mrs.

Hunt. I thought once or twice I would ask her, but she might laugh and I don't want any one to laugh, for it is very solemn." She peered anxiously up into Miss Dorothy's face to see if there were a suspicion of amus.e.m.e.nt there, but Miss Dorothy looked as grave as any one could wish.

"I think faith can do a great deal, my dear little girl," she said gently.

"It can move mountains, the Bible says. I heard grandpa and grandma talking about it, and Mrs. Hunt showed me some mustard seed. I tasted one and it was very strong, so I know now it doesn't mean the bigness but the strongness."

Miss Dorothy looked down with a smile. "You little theologian," she exclaimed. Then to herself she said: This comes of shutting up a child with staid old people. The dear thing needs a whole lot of frivolity mixed up in her life; Christmas trees and things. She shall have them if I can do any of the mixing. "Well, dear," she said aloud, "I think we will hold on to all the faith we can muster, and see what will come of it, but you must realize that just sitting still and believing isn't all of it. We must work, too, for the Bible says faith _and_ works, not faith _or_ works. So now you work hard over your writing, and send letters to your father so he will know what his little girl likes and longs for, then you will be doing your part in that direction, and at the same time put your trust in his love for you, and no doubt something beautiful will come of it all. You can come up to my room as soon as you want to, and we will start the little typewriter."

Marian's satisfaction was too deep for words, but she gave her teacher's arm a little squeeze and laid her cheek against it.

It was not long before she was tapping at the door of Miss Dorothy's room, but before she began the work she was so eager for, she asked, "Do you think I ought to ask grandma's permission?"