Mrs Drewe Later, when she comes home after Edith agrees to look after Marigold while she is out, she cannot find them and becomes afraid Edith has stolen.
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This clearly establishes two things. First, that Lizabeth has finally matured and sees the horrible act that she commits for what it is. Second, that she no longer sees Miss Lottie as the witch of the street like the other kids do. She sees the broken woman that perhaps Lizabeth herself will become. She sees a product of the terrible times; she sees Miss Lottie, finally, as what she really is: Lizabeth's victim, not her perpetrator. After this statement, we learn that Lizabeth apparently tries to apologize.
Mrs. Marigold – Becoming a Classic
However, here is the telling part that shows how Lizabeth may have destroyed Miss Lottie's last attempt at hope. I last saw her hut, completely barren at last, for despite my wild contrition she never planted marigolds again. Clearly, Lizabeth's attempts to apologize could never make up for taking away someone's last gift of life. Nothing Lizabeth could ever do or say can fix a shattered illusion, or bring back a gleam of wishful thinking, as it was originally created. The marigolds were, by Lizabeth's own words, whatever was left of the beauty of love, joy and life that was not already squeezed out dry from the woman's body.
She was a plain little woman, with clean but faded clothes and white hair worn in a bun. Her face was composed of concentric wrinkles that made her always seem to be smiling. Like a marigold, she was unpretentious and small but held her head up proudly. Emma particularly wanted to see Mrs.
Marigold this afternoon because school had been even worse than usual. Marigold was always alone, but she never looked sad. Emma thought maybe she could learn her secret if she observed her carefully enough. Recess had been terrible. Her classmates called her Paul Bunyan and asked when she was going to chop down a tree for them. Her classmates were only trying to get even with her because of her good grades in English. Montgomery acted like it was a big deal, and then all the other kids gave her a hard time. At lunch Susie Croft and Megan Silvo, the two girls she could usually count on to sit with her, sat with some girls who liked to make trouble for Emma by doing things like ripping her homework papers and making up stories about her.
Emma ate her sandwich as fast as she could and then ran out to the willow grove at the edge of the schoolyard to make bracelets out of the willow branches. It would be nice to have some friends you could count on.
Mrs. Marigold
Emma wished her mother would let her get a cat like Mrs. The grasses and wildflowers were already thick from the warm spring days, and Emma could see bees in the purple clover beside the road. Marigold stood with her arms a little way out from her body. The breeze blew the grasses and then moved into the road to billow her skirts and the wisps of hair that had fallen from her bun.
To Emma she looked like the scarecrow her father had put up in the meadow when he had turned part of it into a garden and raised pole beans and tomatoes. Emma thought of her father and of helping her mother string and break the beans. Was she remembering her parents? Had there ever been a Mr. Marigold, or children, or friends who came in for coffee?
Marigold ever look lonely? Emma watched her bend down and pick a purple clover. She pulled the petals from the stem and sucked on them, a few at a time. Emma decided to taste some clover herself when she went on her walk that afternoon. Once when she had been at the county fair with her mother, she had seen Mrs. Marigold looking at the exhibits in the 4-H tent. Marigold smile and mumble something to herself as she stood looking at a large buttercup squash. Her mother never mentioned her, even after they had stood practically next to her in front of the pumpkin pies.
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Marigold would mean sharing her, and Emma wanted to keep her special for her private after-school world. On Saturdays Emma often rode her bicycle past Mrs. Emma knew where she lived because sometimes when Emma pedaled by, Mrs. Marigold was in her yard picking off faded blossoms or weeding. The house was the smallest Emma had ever seen. Two pillars held up the roof over the front porch as if the builder had secretly wished he were constructing a southern mansion. The white paint was peeling up near the eaves, but the shutters hung neatly, and no weeds mixed in with the flowers under the front windows.
Emma hurried into the kitchen for her snack. She gulped the milk and took the brownie with her as she grabbed her door key and ran outside into the humid late-May afternoon. First it meandered through a small, uncultivated field that belonged to the neighbors. She kept a lookout for birds and other creatures hiding in the tall weeds.
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A few days ago a pheasant had startled her by flying into the air from practically at her feet. The woods always looked dark until Emma was inside. There the sun filtered through the leafy tops of the tall, straight trees and created little speckles of light that lit the lichen and mayapples on the forest floor. Emma wondered who had made her path and who tended it. She liked to think that Native Americans had worn the path by following it to the lake to fill their water jugs.
Emma had only once followed the path all the way to the lake. There were so many ferns and mosses and insects that attracted her attention along the way.
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She had to be careful to start home in time. It had been hot in the open, but the air felt cool and peaceful under the trees. Emma shuffled along trying to suck nectar out of the clover she had collected in the field. Emma dropped the clover in the path and picked up a dry twig, which was pleasant to snap into little pieces as she walked along. A butterfly hovered over a plant full of tiny flowers that were almost as brilliantly blue as the butterfly. Emma put a small branch from the plant in her shirt pocket to identify at home. Two chickadees chased each other across the path, scolding and flying back and forth.
Marigold had no friends that Emma knew about, but she always looked happy on her walks. Emma herself usually liked walking alone, but today the kids at school had made her feel different from everybody else. It was hard to forget school and just enjoy her woods.
Emma scuffed the decayed leaves and twigs under her feet and thought about what she might do. Montgomery reading her composition to the class, and the thought made her so mad she kicked a small birch tree. Emma would just have to learn to be like Mrs. Marigold and not need other people at all. Because she had been thinking about her, Emma felt a little thud inside her chest when she realized Mrs. Marigold herself was just down the path by the old fallen oak that Emma used as a resting spot on her walks.
Marigold was picking something growing beside the path. Emma had seen Mrs.