“No, no; read more,” Zell insisted. “Read about where I ran away from the school.”
“How do you know there is anything about that?”
“I am sure there must be. I want to know what Mrs. Norris thought about what I did.”
“Perhaps it will make you very sad.”
“I do not care, Miss. I want to hear.”
Marion did as she was requested, and again opening the book, she turned to the last few pages. Here the dates were far apart, showing that for some time nothing had been recorded. Soiled with tears was the page where the writing once more abruptly began.
“‘I have had no heart to write anything for several weeks’”—so ran the scribbled words, which made the reading difficult. “‘The worst has at last arrived, and Zell, our darling child, is gone! She left us for a white man. Charles can hardly believe it is true, and goes from cabin to cabin searching for her. But I know, and so do the girls in the school. I can hardly write, so full are my eyes with tears. Our house is very lonely now without our darling. May the good Lord keep her safe, and lead her back to us again. I have the feeling that if she does come I shall not be here. I sometimes wonder—’”
“That is all,” Marion quietly remarked, as she once more laid aside the book. Her eyes were misty, while Zell’s were brimming with tears.
“Oh, why didn’t she write more?” the girl impetuously asked. “Why did she stop just there? What was she wondering about? How I should like to know.”
“We never shall, dear,” Marion replied. “She finished her journal just there.”
“She couldn’t write any more, Miss; that was the
