<h2><SPAN name="XII" id="XII"></SPAN>XII</h2>
<h2>A TRUE MIRACLE</h2>
<p>A secret isn't any pleasure. What's
the use of knowing a thing you can't
let anybody know you know? If
I can't tell soon what I've heard
about myself something is liable to
happen.</p>
<p>Nearly three months have passed, and I
haven't told yet. I'm still holding out, but it's
the most awful experience I ever had.</p>
<p>Another idea has come to me, and if I could
see Miss Katherine I could tell whether to do
it or not. If she don't come soon I will do it,
anyhow. I won't be able to help it.</p>
<p>The girls say if I were a darkey they'd think
I was seeking. That's because some days I'm
so unnatural quiet and stay so much by myself.
I do that for safety, fearing otherwise I'd
speak.</p>
<p>They don't know what's going on inside of
me. If they could see they'd find nothing but
quiverings and questions, and if I don't do
anything really violent it's all I ask.</p>
<p>Every morning and every night my prayers
are just this: "O Lord, help Mary Cary through
this day. I'm not asking for to-morrow, it not
being here yet. But <i>This Day</i> help me to hold
out." And all day long I'm saying under my
breath:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span>"Hold on, Mary Cary, hold on, hold on.<br/></span>
<span>There never was a night that didn't have a dawn.<br/></span>
<span>There never was a road that didn't have an end.<br/></span>
<span>Wait awhile, wait awhile, and then the letter send."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>I say that so often to myself that I'm afraid
somebody will hear me think it. If that letter
isn't sent soon, the answer will be received by a
corpse.</p>
<p>I'm never again going to have a secret. It's
worse than a tumor or dropsy. Mrs. Penick
has a tumor. I've never seen the dropsy, but
a secret is more dangerous, for it dries you up.
Dropsy has water to it.</p>
<p>We had apple-dumplings for dinner. I
sold mine to Lucy Pyle for two cents, and
bought a stamp with it. The stamp is for
The Letter.</p>
<p>Miss Katherine has come back. Came night
before last, but I've been too excited to write
anything down. Everything I do is done in
dabs these days, and few lines at the time is
all I'm equal to.</p>
<p>She looks grand. And oh, what a difference
her being here makes! We are children, not
just orphans, when she is with us; and it's because
she loves us, trusts us, brings our best
part to the top that we are different when she
is about. The very way she laughs—so clear
and hearty—makes you think things aren't so
bad, and already they have picked up. Like
my primrose does when I give it water, after
forgetting it till it is as limp as old Miss Sarah
Cone's crêpe veil.</p>
<p>I haven't told her anything yet, but I've
been watching good. I haven't seen any particular
signs of memories and regrets, she being
too busy to have them since she got back.
Still, I believe they are there, and I'm that
afraid I'll say Parke Alden in my sleep I put the
covering over my head, for fear she'd hear me
if I did.</p>
<p>I am back in her room, and this afternoon
she asked me what I was looking at her so hard
for. I told her she was the best thing to look
at that came my way, and she laughed and
called me a foolish child. But Mary Cary is
thinking, and she isn't telling all she thinks
about, either.</p>
<p>Well, it's written. That letter is written and
gone. It was to Dr. Parke Alden. I sent it
to his hospital in Michigan. I made it short,
because by nature I write just endless, having
gotten in the habit from making up stories for
the girls and scribbling them off when kept in,
which in the past was frequent. This is what
I wrote:</p>
<blockquote><p>DR. PARKE ALDEN:</p>
<p><i>Dear Sir</i>,—Eleven weeks and two days ago I heard
you did not know I was living. I am. I live in the
Yorkburg Female Orphan Asylum, and have been
living here for nine years and four months and almost
a week. If you had known I was living all
these years and had not made yourself acquainted
with me, I would not now write you. But I heard,
by accident, you did not know I had been born, so
I am writing to tell you I was. It happened in
Natchez, Miss. I know that much, but little more,
except my father was an actor. I worship his memory.
My mother was named Mary Alden, and you
are her brother. If you would like to know more,
and will write and ask me, I think you will learn
something of interest. Not about me, but there are
other people in this world.</p>
<p>Respectfully,</p>
<p>MARY CARY.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Three days have passed since I sent that
letter off secret. I wouldn't let Miss Katherine
know for a billion dollars that I'd sent it, but
I'm glad I did. I'm sure she's got something
in her heart she don't talk about, for last night,
when she didn't know I was looking, I saw that
same quiet proudness come in her face I saw
the night of the ball.</p>
<p>I don't know how long it takes to go to
Michigan, not knowing much about travelling,
as I've never been out of Yorkburg since I
came in. But some day I'm going around the
world, and I'm going to see everything anybody
else has ever seen before I marry my
children's father. Of course, after I get married
he will be busy, and there will be always
some excuse that will make you tired. I'm
going beforehand. Miss Webb says marriage
is very uncertain.</p>
<p>This is a grand day. The crocuses are peeping
up just as pert and pretty. The little brown
buds on the trees have turned green and getting
bigger every day, and even the air feels like
it's had a bath. I just love the spring. Everything
says to you: "Good-morning! Here we
are again. Let's begin all over." And inside
I say, "All right," and I mean it; but oh, Mary
Cary, you're so unreliable. There are times
when your future looks very much like a worm
of the dust.</p>
<p>Miss Bray is real sick. She hasn't been well
for a long time, and she looks like she's shrivelling,
though still fat. She has nervous dyspepsia,
which they say is ruinous to dispositions,
and Miss Bray's isn't the kind for any sort of
sickness to be free with.</p>
<p>It certainly is making her queer, for she's
changed from sharpness to tearfulness, and she
weeps any time. A thing I never thought I'd
live to see.</p>
<p>Poor creature, I feel real sorry for her. Miss
Jones says she's worn out, but I don't believe
it's that. I believe it's conscience and coffee.
Miss Bray isn't an all-over bad person. If it
wasn't I knew she told stories, I could have
stood the other things. But when a person
tells stories, what have you got to hold on to?
Nothing.</p>
<p>I believe it's those stories that's giving her
trouble in her stomach. Anything on your
mind does, and Miss Bray looks at me so curious
and so nervous, sometimes, that I can't
help feeling sorry for her.</p>
<p>I don't believe she will ever get well until
she repents and confesses and crosses her heart
that she won't do it again. A confession is a
grand relief.</p>
<p>Suppose Dr. Parke Alden don't write, don't
notice me! I will be that mad and mortified
I will wish I was dead. But if he don't answer
that letter, I will write a few more things to
him before dying, for, if I am an Orphan, I
oughtn't to be treated like a piece of imagination.</p>
<p>The black hen has got a lot of little chickens
and the jonquils are in bloom. The sun is as
warm as June, but I'm shivering all the time,
and Miss Katherine says she don't understand
me. She gave me a tonic to make me eat
more. I don't want to eat. I want a letter.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Jerusalem the Golden! Now, what do you
reckon has happened! Nothing will evermore
surprise Mary Cary, mostly Martha.</p>
<p>If the moon ever burns, or the stars come to
town, or the Pope marries a wife, or the dead
come to life, I will just say, "Is that so?" and
in my heart I will know a stranger thing than
that.</p>
<p>Yesterday Miss Bray sent for me to come to
her room. She was sick in bed, and her frizzes
weren't frizzed, and she looked so old and
pitiful that I took hold of her hand and said,
"I'm awful sorry you are sick, Miss Bray."</p>
<p>And what did she do but begin to cry, and
such a long crying I never saw anybody have.
I knew there was a lot to come out and she'd
better get rid of it, so I let it keep on without
remarks, and after a while she told me to shut
the door, and get her a clean handkerchief out
of her top bureau-drawer.</p>
<p>I did it. Then she told me to sit down. I
did that, too, and it's well I did. If I hadn't
I'd have fell. Her words would have made
me.</p>
<p>"Mary Cary," she said, "you have given me
a great deal of trouble, and at times you've
nearly worried me to death. But never since
you've been here have you ever told a story,
and that's what I've done." And she put her
head down in her pillow, and I tell you she
nearly shook herself, out of bed she cried so.</p>
<p>I was so surprised and confused I didn't
know whether I was awake or asleep. But all
of a sudden it came to me what she meant, and
I put my arms around her neck and kissed her.
That's what I did, Martha or no Martha; I
kissed her. Then I said:</p>
<p>"Miss Bray, I'm awful glad you are sorry
you did it. If you're sorry it's like a sponge
that wipes it off, and don't anybody but you
and me and God know about that particular
one. And we can all forget it, if there's never
any more."</p>
<p>And then she cried harder than ever. Regular
rivers. I didn't know the top of your head
could hold so much water.</p>
<p>But she said there would never be any more,
for she'd never had any peace since the way I
looked at her that day, and she couldn't stand
it any longer. She didn't know why I had
that effect on her, but I did, and she'd sent for
me to talk about it.</p>
<p>Well, we talked. I told her I didn't think
just being sorry was enough, and I asked her
how sorry was she.</p>
<p>"I don't know," she said, and then she began
on tears again, so I thought I'd better be
quick while the feeling lasted.</p>
<p>"Well, you know, Miss Bray," I began,
"Pinkie Moore hasn't been adopted yet. She
never will be while the ladies think what you
told them is true. You ought to write a letter
to the Board and tell them what you said
wasn't so."</p>
<p>"I can't!" she said; and then more fountains
flowed. "I can't tell them I told a story!"</p>
<p>"But that's what you did," I said. "And
when you've done a mean thing, there isn't but
one way to undo it—own up and take what
comes. But it's nothing to a conscience that's
got you, and is never going to let you go until
you do the square thing. If you want peace,
it's the only way to get it."</p>
<p>"But I can't write a letter; I'm so nervous
I couldn't compose a line." And you never
would have known her voice. It was as quavery
as old Doctor Fleury's, the Methodist preacher
who's laid off from work.</p>
<p>"I'll write it for you." And I hopped for
the things in her desk. "You can copy it
when you feel better." And, don't you know,
she let me do it! After three tryings I finished
it, then read it out loud:</p>
<blockquote><p>DEAR LADIES,—If any one applies for Pinkie Moore,
I hope you will let her go. Pinkie is the best and
most useful girl in the Asylum. More than two years
ago I said differently. It was wrong in me, and Pinkie
isn't untruthful. She hasn't a bad temper, and never
in her life took anything that didn't belong to her.
I am sorry I said what I did. She don't know it
and never will, and I hope you will forgive me for
saying it.</p>
<p>Respectfully,</p>
<p>MOLLIE E. BRAY.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When I was through she cried still harder,
and said she'd lose her place. She knew she
would. I told her she wouldn't. I knew she
wouldn't. And after a while she sat up in
bed and copied it. Some of her tears blotted
it, but I told her that didn't matter, and when
I got up to go she looked better already.</p>
<p>I knew how she felt. Like I did when my
tooth that had to come out was out. And a
thing on your mind is worse than the toothache.
One you can tell, the other you can't.
A thing you can't tell is like a spook that's
always behind you, and right in the bed with
you when you wake up sudden, and lies down
with you every time you go to sleep. I know,
for that letter is on my mind.</p>
<p>When I got out of Miss Bray's room I ran
in mine, Miss Katherine being out, and locked
the door, and I said:</p>
<p>"Mary Martha Cary, don't ever say again
there's no such things as modern miracles.
There's been a miracle to-day, and you have
seen it. Somebody has been born over." And
then, because I couldn't help it, I cried almost
as bad as Miss Bray.</p>
<p>But, oh, nobody can ever know how much
harm it had done me to believe a lady could go
through life telling stories, and doing mean, dishonorable
things, and not minding. And people
treating her just the same as if she were honest!</p>
<p>When I found out it wasn't so—that your sin
did make you suffer, and that it did make a
difference trying to do right—I felt some of
my old Martha-ry scornfulness slipping away.
And I got down on my knees, no words, but
God understanding why.</p>
<p>I don't like any kind of bitterness in my
heart. I'd rather like people. But can you
like a deceiver? You can't.</p>
<p>Dr. Parke Alden has taken no more notice
of me than if I were a Juney-bug.</p>
<p>I wonder if Miss Katherine will ever marry.
She wasn't meant to live in an Orphan Asylum.
She was meant to be the Lady of the House,
and to wear beautiful clothes, and have horses
and carriages and children of her own, and to
give orders. Instead of that, she is here; but
sometimes she has a look on her face which I
call "Waiting." Last week I wrote a poem
about it. This is it:</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span>"In the winter, by the fireside, when the snow falls soft and white,<br/></span>
<span>I am waiting, hoping, longing, but for what I don't know quite.<br/></span>
<span>And when summer's sunshine shimmers, and the birds sing clear and sweet,<br/></span>
<span>I am waiting, always waiting, for the joy I hope to meet.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span>It will be, I think, my husband, and the home he'll make for me;<br/></span>
<span>But of his coming or home-making, I as yet no signs do see.<br/></span>
<span>But I still shall keep on waiting, for I know it's true as fate,<br/></span>
<span>When you really, truly hustle, things will come if just you'll wait."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>I don't think much of that. It sounds like
"Dearest Willie, thou hast left us, and thy loss
we deeply feel." But I wasn't meant for a
poet any more than Miss Katherine for an old
maid.</p>
<p>Dr. Parke Alden must be dead. Either that
or he's no gentleman, or he didn't get my letter.
I wish I hadn't written it. I wish I hadn't let
him know I was living. But it was Miss
Katherine I was thinking about. Thank Heaven,
I didn't mention her name! He isn't worth
thinking about, and I think of nothing else.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
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