Free Magic for Marigold by L. M. Montgomery Page A

imagination.
    2
    And it was horrid—horrid. There was nothing nice about it from the very beginning, except the drive to the Head with Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold, over wood-roads spicy with the fern scent of the warm summer afternoon. As soon as they left her there the horridness began. Marigold did not know that she was homesick, but she knew she was unhappy from her head to her toes and that everything was disappointing. What good was a case of humming-birds if there were no one to talk them over with? Even the water-garden did not interest her, and there were no signs of a skeleton anywhere. As for Frank, he was the worst disappointment of all. He hardly took any notice of her at all. And he was so changed—so gruff and smileless, with a horrible little mustache which looked just like a dab of soot on his upper lip. It was the mustache over which he and Hilda had quarreled, though nobody knew about it but themselves.
    Marigold ate very little supper. She thought every mouthful would choke her. She took only two bites of Aunt Flora’s nut cake with whipped cream on top, and Aunt Flora, who had made it on purpose for her, never really forgave her. After supper she went out and leaned forlornly against the gate, looking wistfully up the long red road of mystery that led back home. Oh, if she were only home—with Mother. The west wind stirring in the grasses—the robin-vesper calls—the long tree shadows across a field of wheaten gold—all hurt her now because Mother wasn’t here.
    â€œNothing is ever like what you think it’s going to be,” she thought dismally.
    It was after supper at home now, too. Grandmother would be weaving in the garret—and Salome would be giving the cats their milk—and Mother—Marigold ran in to Aunt Flora.
    â€œAunt Flora, I must go home right away—please— please .”
    â€œNonsense, child,” said Aunt Flora stiffly. “Don’t take a fit of the fidgets now.”
    Marigold wondered why she had never noticed before what a great beaky nose Aunt Flora had.
    â€œOh, please take me home,” she begged desperately.
    â€œYou can’t go home tonight,” said Aunt Flora impatiently. “The car isn’t working right. Don’t get lonesome now. I guess you’re tired. You’d better go to bed. Frank’ll drive you home tomorrow if it doesn’t rain. Come now, seven’s your bedtime at home, isn’t it?”
    â€œSeven’s your bedtime at home.” At home —lying in her own bed, with the light shining from Mother’s room—with a delicious golden ball of fluff that curled and purred all over your bed and finally went to sleep on your legs. Marigold couldn’t bear it.
    â€œOh, I want to go home. I want to go home,” she sobbed.
    â€œI can’t have any nonsense now,” said Aunt Flora firmly. Aunt Flora was noted for her admirable firmness with children. “Surely you’re not going to be a crybaby. I’ll take you up and help you undress.”
    3
    Marigold was lying alone in a huge room in a huge bed that was miles from the floor. She was suddenly half wild with terror and altogether wild with unendurable homesickness. It was dark with a darkness that could be felt. She had never gone to bed in the dark before. Always that friendly light in Mother’s room—and sometimes Mother stayed with her till she went to sleep, though Young Grandmother disapproved of that. Marigold had been afraid to ask Aunt Flora to leave the light. Aunt Flora had tucked her in and told her to be a good girl.
    â€œShut your eyes and go right to sleep, and it will be morning before you know it—and you can go home.”
    Then she had gone out and shut the door. Aunt Flora flattered herself she knew how to deal with children.
    Marigold couldn’t go to sleep in the dark. And it would be years and years before morning came—if it ever