great in its results.

Miss Ashton, large-hearted and strong-headed, seeing wisely into this
future, had succeeded in offering to this class exactly what it had
demanded.

Ably seconded by an efficient and generous board of trustees, with
ample funds, excellent teachers to assist her, a convenient and
handsome building in which to hold the school, she had readily made it
a success. There were more applications for admittance than she could
find room for; indeed, every available corner of the house had been
promised when she received Mrs. Parke's letter.

Sometimes it happened that a scholar for some unforeseen reason failed
to appear; that might make an opening for Marion. She wanted this
Western girl; the missionary spirit of olden times came back to her
with a warmth and freshness it would have cheered the hearts of the
long-absent ones in heathen lands to know. The crowd of scholars began
to gather. They came from the north and the south, the east and the
west, with a remarkable promptness. On the day for the opening of the
term every room was full, and many who had delayed applying for
places--taking it for granted there was always a vacancy--were sent
disappointed away.

There seemed to be positively no spot for Marion; and, in spite of all
the cares and perplexities which each day brought her, Miss Ashton
could not forget it. It became a positive source of worry to her
before she received a letter stating the day on which Marion would
arrive.

"That's not a good beginning, to be a week after the opening of the
term," she thought. "I hope she will bring a good excuse."

CHAPTER II.

MARION ENTERS SCHOOL.

It was a beautiful September twilight when a young girl came timidly
into the main entrance of the Young Ladies' Academy at Montrose.

Six days and four nights ago she had left her home in Oregon, delayed
by the sickness of one of the companions under whose escort she was to
come to Massachusetts.

Before this journey she had never been more than ten miles from home,
and it was a wonderful new world into which the cars so quickly
brought her.

Mountains, plains, rivers, cities, villages, seemed to fly by her as
the train dashed along. She had no time to miss the familiar scenes of
her own home.

The flat prairie, over whose long reaches gay flowers blossomed, the
little villages dotted here and there, with now and then a small,
white steeple pointing heavenward,--her father's church among