"Tut, tut, tut!" said the lawyer. "What's inside it? Lollipops, eh? lollipops?"
"No," said Meg, pale with eagerness; "it's books and things—keepsakes. I'll never part with them—never!"
"Oh, hoity-toity!" said Mr. Fullbloom, then impressed with the child's resolute look. "Well, well," he added, jerking his head to the other side, "perhaps we'll find a place for it in the carriage."
Then once more Mrs. Browne lifted up her voice, and weeping embraced Meg, who submitted to her caress with a certain stiff-backed irresponsiveness. It is probable that if Meg had been called under other circumstances to leave the gloomy old boarding-house and the boozy landlady, about whom clustered all the associations of her childhood, she would have felt the pang of the uprooting; but an absorbing affection now filled her little heart, and with it had come new hopes and ambition.
A brougham was waiting at the door. Into it she stepped, and after her, Mr. Fullbloom. The next moment she was driving swiftly and silently along. It was all very strange; yet Meg did not feel surprised. Grief had lifted her unconsciously to a higher level of expectation; all unknowingly her attitude toward life was changed.
She was vaguely aware that she was the object of her companion's amused and attentive observation. For all his waggish ways and darting movements Mr. Fullbloom had a shrewd and observant mind. He was a lawyer, accustomed to note with discriminating eye external signs that gave him the clew to the personality of those with whom he came in contact. It had grown to be a second nature with him to take note of appearances. This little maid's imperturbable demeanor before the tears of Mrs. Browne, her quick, fearless trust in him, her determined attitude toward the bundle covered with brown paper, piqued his curiosity, and moved a deeper interest in her than that which he usually accorded to children. The clear-cut little profile, he acknowledged, had a character of its own. Meg's attitude, as she sat upright and somewhat stiffly, partook of the same individuality. Mr. Fullbloom noted every detail of the child's dress—the well-worn turban hat crowning the brown crop of hair, the shabby velveteen dress, the weather-beaten jacket with its border of mangy fur, the old boots, the darned worsted gloves covering the hands that clasped the parcel.
"I think I know a little girl who is not very sorry to leave the old house—not sorry," he said at last, stooping forward and cocking his head with that bird-like swiftness.
"I want to go to that school. Are we going there now?" inquired Meg.
"Perhaps we are—perhaps we are not—perhaps we are going to a fairy palace," replied Mr. Fullbloom with a suggestive sidelong glance.