Part 4 (1/2)

She pinned it on tremblingly and then crept back to bed. Perhaps she went to sleep,--at any rate, quite suddenly there were voices at her door--_Her_ voice and--His. She did not stir, but lay and listened to them.

”Dear child! Wouldn't you wake her up, Henry? What do you suppose could have happened?” That was the voice that used to be Mother's.

It made Margaret feel thrilly and homesick.

”Something at school, probably, dear,--you mustn't worry. All sorts of little troubles happen at school.” The voice that used to be her Father's.

”I know, but this must have been a big one. If you had seen her little face, Henry! If she were Nelly, I should think somebody had been telling her--about her origin, you know--”

Margaret held her breath. Nelly was the Enemy, but what was an origin? This thing that they were saying--hark?

”I've always expected Nelly to find out that way--it would be so much kinder to tell her at home. You know it would, Henry, instead of letting her hear it from strangers and get her poor little heart broken. Henry, if G.o.d hadn't given us a precious little child of our own and we had ever adopted--”

Margaret dashed off the quilts and leaped to the floor with a cry of ecstasy. The anguish--the shame--the cruel gibing Things--were left behind her; they had slid from her burdened little heart at the first glorious rush of understanding; they would never come back,--never come back,--never come back to Margaret! Glory, glory, hallelujah, 'twasn't her! _Her_ soul went marching on!

The two at the door suffered an unexpected, an amazing onslaught from a flying little figure. Its arms were out, were gathering them both in,--were strangling them in wild, exultant hugs.

”Oh! Oh, you're mine! I'm yours! We're each other's! I'm not an Adopted any more! I thought I was, and I wasn't! I was going away and die--oh, oh, oh!”

Then Margaret remembered the Enemy, and in the throes of her pity the enmity was swallowed up forever. The instant yearning that welled up in her to put her arms around the poor real Adopted almost stifled her. She slid out of the two pairs of big tender arms and scurried away like a hare. She was going to find Nelly and love her--oh, love her enough to make up! She would give her the coral beads she had always admired; she would let her be mistress and _she'd_ be maid when they kept house,--she'd let her have the frosting half of all their cake and _all_ the raisins.

”I'll let her wear the spangly veil when we dress up--oh, poor, poor Nelly!” Margaret cried softly as she ran. ”And the longest trail.

She may be the richest and have the most children--I'd _rather_.”

There did not seem anything possible and beloved that she would not let Nelly do. She took agitated little leaps through the soft darkness, sending on ahead her yearning love in a tender little call: ”Nelly! Nelly!”

She could never be too tender--too generous--to Nelly, to try to make up. And all her life she would take care of her and keep her from finding out. She shouldn't find out! When they were both, oh, very old, she would still be taking care of Nelly like that.

”Nelly! Nelly!”

If she could only think of some Great Thing she could do, that would--would _hurt_ to do! And then she thought. She stopped quite suddenly in her impetuous rush, stilled by the Greatness of it.

”I'll let her love her mother the best,” whispered Margaret to the stars,--”so there!”

Chapter IV

Bobby Unwelcome

Bobby had learned U that day in school, and he strutted home beside his nurse, Olga, with conscious relief in the swing of his st.u.r.dy legs. There was a special reason why Bobby felt relieved to get to U. He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at the non-committal face so far above him, and wondered in his anxious little way whether or not it would be prudent to speak of the special reason now. Olga _had_ times, Bobby had discovered, when you da.s.sent speak of things, and it looked--yes, cert'nly--as though she was having one now. Still, if you only dast to--

”It's the same one that's in the middle o' my name, don't you know,”

he plunged in, hurriedly.

”Mercy! What iss it the child iss talking about!”

There! wasn't she having one? Didn't she usually say ”Mercy!” like that when she was?

”That letter, you know--U. The one in the middle o' my name,” Bobby hastened on--”right prezac'ly in the middle of it. I wish”--but he caught himself up with a jerk. It didn't seem best, after all, to consult Olga now--not now, while she was having one. Better wait--only, dear, dear, dear, how long he had waited a'ready!