-night. She even tormented herself with the planning of a dainty
supper, accompanied by exquisite table arrangements such as she would
manage for a sister, say, if she had one--a sister who had been in
school all day and was wet and hungry and tired, if she had the room,
and the table, and the china, and the materials out of which to
construct the supper. She was reasonable enough to see that there were
many ifs in the way, but the picture did not make the present supper
relish.

She struggled to rally her weary powers. She asked the clerk next her if
it had been a busy day, and she told the sewing-girl at her left about a
lovely bouquet of flowers that one of the girls brought to school, and
that she had meant to bring home to her, if it was presented. To be sure
it was not. But the intention was the same, and the heart of the
sewing-girl was cheered.

Finally Marion gave over trying to swallow the supper, and assuring
herself with the determination to go early to bed, and so escape
faintness, she went up three flights of stairs to her room.

"When I am rich and a woman of leisure, I will build a house that shall
have pleasant rooms and good bread and butter, and I will board
school-teachers and sewing-girls and clerks for a song." This she said
aloud.

Then she set about making a bit of blaze, or a great deal of smoke in
the little imp of a stove. The stove was small and cracked and rusty,
and could smoke like a furnace. What a contrast to the glowing
coal-grate where Flossy at this hour toasted her pretty cheeks. Yet
Marion, in her way, was less dismal than Flossy in hers.

It was not in Marion's nature to shed any tears; instead, she hummed a
few notes of a glorious old tune triumphant in every note, trying this
to rob herself of gloom and cheat herself into the belief that she was
not very lonely, and that her life did not stretch out before her as a
desolate thing. She did not mean to give herself up to glooming, though
she did hover over the little stove and lean her cheek on her hand and
look at nothing in particular for a few minutes. What she said when she
rallied from the silence was simply:

"What an abominable smoke you can make to be sure, Marion Wilbur, when
you try. Hardly any one can compete with you in that line, at least."

Then she drew her school reports toward her, intending to make them out
for the week thus far, but she scribbled on the fly-leaf with her pencil
instead. She wrote her own