Meg, of Valencia. Myra Williams Jarrell

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СКАЧАТЬ look came back into Meg’s eyes as she answered: “It has never seemed just right that I didn’t have a father, or mother, or even a big brother to take care of me. Sometimes—” there was a little catch in her voice—“oh, dear Mrs. Malloy, sometimes I feel as if there were no fight left in me!”

      “You poor little thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Malloy, reaching out for her hand, “this is really yourself that I see now—a little tame canary made wild because it has no one to shield it, and must look out for itself!”

      Meg looked at her adoringly.

      “You are the first person I have ever known who has seemed to understand me, and somehow, I feel that my mother was like you. You won’t laugh at me or tell any one if I tell you something?” she asked anxiously.

      “You may count on my silence and sympathy, dear.”

      “When I was a little girl, my principal amusement was to ‘pretend’ things. I would pretend I was a princess, or something else equally improbable. One day, I wanted some one else to play with me so badly, that I told Aunt Amelia about it.”

      “Yes?” queried Mrs. Malloy softly, as she paused.

      “Oh, she slapped me, told me I was nothing but an ugly, red-headed little object of charity, and not to go imagining any more nonsense.”

      Mrs. Malloy bit her lip to keep back the disparaging words which longed for utterance. Instead, she stroked the hand she held, and Meg continued:

      “Since then I have played my little games by myself. Sometimes I go up to the attic, where I have a trunk containing mother’s things. I put on her dress and apron, and take a piece of crochet work in my hands—the one she was making when she was taken sick—and then I pretend that I am she, and that I am there, too—you understand?”

      Mrs. Malloy nodded. “And then I talk as I know she would talk to me if she were here. I give myself lectures for my frivolity, and good advice—and—and—oh, I say the tender little things that I know she would say, and that no one ever does——” She stopped, and began to sob quietly.

      Mrs. Malloy drew her up beside her, so that the little red head rested on her shoulder. There were unshed tears in her eyes, which had looked out bravely and hopefully upon a world that had little enough to offer her, and she felt, in this moment, that a very strong bond was between this girl, almost a stranger, and herself.

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