The day before Mary’s departure from the manse they had a picnic in her honour in Rainbow Valley, and that evening all the manse children gave her something from their scanty store of treasured things for a keepsake.  Carl gave her his Noah’s ark and Jerry his second best jew’s-harp.  Faith gave her a little hairbrush with a mirror in the back of it, which Mary had always considered very wonderful.  Una hesitated between an old beaded purse and a gay picture of Daniel in the lion’s den, and finally offered Mary her choice.  Mary really hankered after the beaded purse, but she knew Una loved it, so she said,

“Give me Daniel.  I’d rusher have it ’cause I’m partial to lions.  Only I wish they’d et Daniel up.  It would have been more exciting.”

At bedtime Mary coaxed Una to sleep with her.

“It’s for the last time,” she said, “and it’s raining tonight, and I hate sleeping up there alone when it’s raining on account of that graveyard.  I don’t mind it on fine nights, but a night like this I can’t see anything but the rain pouring down on them old white stones, and the wind round the window sounds as if them dead people were trying to get in and crying ’cause they couldn’t.”

“I like rainy nights,” said Una, when they were cuddled down together in the little attic room, “and so do the Blythe girls.”

“I don’t mind ’em when I’m not handy to graveyards,” said Mary.  “If I was alone here I’d cry my eyes out I’d be so lonesome.  I feel awful bad to be leaving you all.”

“Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rainbow Valley quite often I’m sure,” said Una.  “And you will be a good girl, won’t you, Mary?”

“Oh, I’ll try,” sighed Mary.  “But it won’t be as easy for me to be good—­inside, I mean, as well as outside—­as it is for you.  You hadn’t such scalawags of relations as I had.”

“But your people must have had some good qualities as well as bad ones,” argued Una.  “You must live up to them and never mind their bad ones.”

“I don’t believe they had any good qualities,” said Mary gloomily.  “I never heard of any.  My grandfather had money, but they say he was a rascal.  No, I’ll just have to start out on my own hook and do the best I can.”

“And God will help you, you know, Mary, if you ask Him.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, Mary.  You know we asked God to get a home for you and He did.”

“I don’t see what He had to do with it,” retorted Mary.  “It was you put it into Mrs. Elliott’s head.”

“But God put it into her heart to take you.  All my putting it into her head wouldn’t have done any good if He hadn’t.”

“Well, there may be something in that,” admitted Mary.  “Mind you, I haven’t got anything against God, Una.  I’m willing to give Him a chance.  But, honest, I think He’s an awful lot like your father—­just absent-minded and never taking any notice of a body most of the time, but sometimes waking up all of a suddent and being awful good and kind and sensible.”