Magic for Marigold by L. M. Montgomery

played in this orchard—and then my grandchildren—and my great-grandchildren. Such a lot of small ghosts! To think that in a house where there were once fourteen children there is now nobody but you.”
    â€œThat isn’t my fault,” said Marigold, who felt as if Old Grandmother were blaming her.
    â€œIt’s nobody’s fault, just as it was nobody’s fault that your father died of pneumonia before you were born. Cloud of Spruce will be yours someday, Marigold.”
    â€œWill it?” Marigold was startled. Such a thing had never occurred to her.
    â€œAnd you must always love it. Places know when they’re loved—just the same as people. I’ve seen houses whose hearts were actually broken. This house and I have always been good friends. I’ve always loved it from the day I came here as a bride. I planted most of those trees. You must marry someday, Marigold, and fill those old rooms again. But not too young—not too young. I married at seventeen and I was a Grandmother at thirty-six. It was awful. Sometimes it seems to me that I’ve always been a Grandmother.
    â€œI could have been married at sixteen. But I was determined I wouldn’t be married till I had finished knitting my apple-leaf bedspread. Your great-grandfather went off in such a rage I didn’t know if he’d ever come back. But he did. He was only a boy himself. Two children—that’s what we were. Two young fools. That’s what everybody called us. And yet we were wiser then than I am now. We knew things then I don’t know now. I’ve stayed up too late. Don’t do that, Marigold—don’t live till there’s nothing left of life but the Pope’s nose. Nobody will be sorry when I die.”
    Suddenly Marigold gasped.
    â€œ I will be sorry,” she cried—and meant it. Why, it would be terrible. No Old Grandmother at Cloud of Spruce. How could the world go on at all?
    â€œI don’t mean that kind of sorriness,” said Old Grandmother. “And even you won’t be sorry long. Isn’t it strange? I was once afraid of Death. He was a foe then—now he is a lover. Do you know, Marigold, it is thirty years since any one called me by my name? Do you know what my name is?”
    â€œNo-o,” admitted Marigold. It was the first time she had ever realized that Old Grandmother must have a name.
    â€œMy name is Edith. Do you know I have an odd fancy I want to hear someone call me that again. Just once. Call me by my name, Marigold.”
    Marigold gasped again. This was terrible. It was sacrilege. Why, one might almost as well be expected to call God by His name to His face.
    â€œSay anything—anything—with my name in it,” said Old Grandmother impatiently.
    â€œI—I don’t know what to say,—Edith,” stammered Marigold. It sounded dreadful when she had said it. Old Grandmother sighed.
    â€œIt’s no use. That isn’t my name—not as you say it. Of course it couldn’t be. I should have known better.” Suddenly she laughed.
    â€œMarigold, I wish I could be present at my own funeral. Oh, wouldn’t it be fun! The whole clan will be here to the last sixth cousin. They’ll sit around and say all the usual kind, good, dull things about me instead of the interesting truth. The only true thing they’ll say will be that I had a wonderful constitution. That’s always said of any Lesley who lives to be over eighty. Marigold—” Old Grandmother’s habit of swinging a conversation around by its ears was always startling, “what do you really think about the world?”
    Marigold, though taken by surprise, knew exactly what she thought about the world.
    â€œI think it’s very int’resting,” she said.
    Old Grandmother stared at her, then laughed.
    â€œYou’ve hit it. ‘Whether there be tongues they shall fail—whether there be prophecies they