June 1931
262
T h e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
1J am pant mò xmò& get % SJorö tfytnkeify upon me”
That there was a turn in the road just ahead she felt very sure, as she stepped off the train into the waiting arms of Joyce Goodwin. The little town of Glenwold at tracted her from the first moment, with its quietly digni fied residences and its tree-bordered streets giving it an air of comfort and stability. “What a pretty, restful-looking place it is,” Marian exclaimed, as she and Joyce walked down' the quiet street. “We think so,” Joyce answered happily. “And when you see my father, Marian—just the dearest old Dad a girl ever had! There, I didn’t mean that for poetry,” she laughed, “but you will see why I am .not unhappy even if I could not finish college. But you will tell me all about it, won’t you ? You will soon be going back for your last year.” “I am not going back.” “Not going back! Why, Marian—” And then she stopped. One glance at Marian’s face, and she knew that something had happened—something of which she was ignorant. They walked on for a little while in silence, and soon reached the Goodwin home. Marian met Joyce’s mother, a plump, cheery woman, bubbling over with vivacity. When later she met the fath er, a rather delicate-looking man with the face of a saint, with kindliness and gentleness written on every line of it, she was reminded of the college name for Joyce. Surely here was “joy” and “goodness” wed. That first evening, in spite of keeping the conversation in the cheeriest vein, the Goodwins could not but see that their guest was sick, spiritually and mentally. And they set themselves with loving patience to help her. Joyce’s father suggested the plan: “Go slow with her,” he cautioned. “There is a sore that we may find and heal, but it is in her spirit, and that is most difficult to reach. Her thinking is twisted, too. Get her rested and strengthened physically if you can— that is easiest to reach—and then we will try to help her spiritually. But she must herself open the door and let us enter there. She will do this if we can win her con fidence.” And win her confidence they did. Their family life was a revelation to the lonely girl. From morning till night there was not a jar in the harmony of that home, and few indeed were the discordant notes that were allowed to cross the threshold from the outside. Marian wondered at the skill with which the family guided the conversation that enlivened their every gath ering together. Cheerfulness and kindliness were the key note. Each seemed to be on the lookout for some inter esting little happening of the day, which could be brought to the evening meal for the entertainment of the others. The days went by full of quiet happiness. One evening Marian and Joyce went to their room rather earlier than usual. “Come here, Joy, and let me ask you something,” Marian begged, pulling her friend down on the bed be side her. “I have told you something about how so many hard things came into my life that I had to wonder if there was a God of love. Since I have been here, I know that there is. But still I cannot help thinking, and think-
for weeks, and they spoil him, I guess. He wants to be amused and entertained every minute.” “Give him to me.” She picked the child up in her strong young arms, and turning to the mother, said gently, “I ’ll keep him for an hour. Won’t you please lay your head back and try to rest a little?” As she bent over to pick up some of the baby’s toys, she was startled to find the eyes of the man seated directly behind the mother and child fastened intently on her face. There was something in the look that she could not fath om.!| At her own look of surprise and almost inquiry he dropped his eyes to the magazine in his hand. But as she reached her section and seated master baby just right to suit that imperious young person, she glanced up again and found he was still watching her. For an hour—and hour and a half—Marian Linton was obliged to forget her troubles. She was fond of children, and this little chap, now that he had all the at tention he wanted, was cute and interesting and proved more entertaining than anything she had seen outside. She glanced at the mother now and then and was gratified to see her apparently asleep. But each time she looked in that direction she was almost sure to find a pair of gray eyes quietly regarding her. After a time, her little charge became more and more quiet. His eyes drooped shut in spite of his best efforts to hold them open, and she took him back to his mother. They made a' little bed on the seat, and baby slept sound ly; while the mother, refreshed and cheered, poured out her grateful thanks to Marian. “My dear, I don’t know what made you do it, and I don’t know how to thank you. You were a veritable angel to come as you did.” “Oh no, I ’m not,” laughed Marian. “Far from it!” “I am not so sure of that. You know angels are simply messengers sent by God to carry a message or to give us help. That is what you did, and I certainly feel God sent you. He will reward you.” Marian did not answer for a moment; and then, put ting out her hand impulsively, she laid it in the hand of the little mother. “He has done it,” she said simply. < She could say no more. God had somehow in His own wonderful' way shown her this afternoon that the awful barrier of ice was not wholly .insurmountable from her side of the enclosure. She could scale it, perhaps in time utterly demolish it. A few hours later she saw the baby carried off the train in the strong arms of its father, while the little mother waved her hand and smiled up at the window where Marian sat as the train pulled away into the dusky twilight. The next morning the country was all new to her, and she watched it with keenest interest as she drew near the town where Joyce Goodwin lived. She had almost dreaded meeting Joy when she had started on her journey, but the little incident of the mother and baby had worked a subtle change, and she looked forward eagerly to meet ing her friend.'
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