Drawing her to a seat beside the window, Madam sat with an arm around her, until the sobs grew quiet, and then began to answer her question—­the same old cry that has gone up from stricken souls ever since the world began.  And Mary, listening, felt the comfort and the uplift of a strong faith that had learned to go unfaltering through the sorest trials, knowing that out of the worst of them some compensating good should be wrested in the end.  For months afterwards, whenever that bitter cry rose to her lips again, she stilled it with the remembrance of those words.  Sometime, somehow, even this terrible calamity should be made the stepping-stone to better things.  How such a thing could come to pass Mary could not understand, but Madam’s faith that such would be so, comforted her.  It was as if one little glimmering star struggled out through the blackness of the night, and in the light of that she plucked up courage to push on hopefully through the dark.

That afternoon just as her trunk was being carried out, the ’bus drove up, bringing back its first instalment of returning pupils.  Cornie Dean was among them, and Elise and A.O.  Mary, looking out of the window, heard the familiar voices, and feeling that their questions and sympathy would be more than she could bear, caught up her hat and hand-baggage, and ran over to Betty’s room to wait there until time to go.

“No, I can’t see any of them, please.” she begged, when Betty came in to say how distressed and shocked they all were to hear about Jack, and to know that she was leaving school.  They were all crying over it, and wanted to see her, if only for a moment.

“No,” persisted Mary.  “It would just start me all off again to hear one sympathetic word, and my eyes are like red flannel now.  I’ve already said good-bye to Madam, and I’m going to slip out without speaking to another soul.”

“You’ll have to speak to Hawkins,” said Betty.  “For he is lying in wait for you with such a box of lunch as never went out of this establishment before.  He asked Madam’s permission to put it up for you himself.  He told her about your binding up his hands the day the chafing-dish turned over and burned him so badly, and about the letter you wrote for one of the maids that got her sister into a school for the blind, and several other things, winding up with ’There’s a young lady with a ’eart in ‘er, Ma’am!’”

Betty mimicked his accent so well that Mary laughed for the first time since her return.  “Well, he’s got a ’eart in ’im!” she answered, “though I never would have imagined it the day I made my entrance here.  He was like a grand, graven image.  Oh, Betty, it is nice to know that people like you and are sorry that you are going.  Even if it does make you feel sort of weepy it takes a big part of the sting out of leaving.”