She stayed there a week—a month—a year
She and Nell—she and the Enemy—had been so proud to have aprons just alike and cut by the same dainty pattern. But now if she knew—if the Enemy knew! How ashamed it would make her to have on one like—like an adopted’s! How she’d wish hers was stripes! Perhaps—oh, perhaps she would think it was fortunate that she was an enemy now.
But the worst Things that crowded up and scoffed and gibed were not Things that had to do with enemies. The worst-of-all Things had to do with a little, tender woman with glasses on—whose hair didn’t curl. Those Things broke Margaret’s heart.
“Now you know why She makes you make the bed over again when it’s wrinkly,” gibed one Thing.
“And why she makes you mend the holes in your stockings,” another Thing.
“She doesn’t make me do the biggest ones!” flashed Margaret, hotly, but she could not stem the tide of Things. It swirled in.
“Perhaps now you see why She makes you hem towels and wipe dishes—”
“And won’t let you eat two pieces of pie—”
“Or one piece o’ fruit-cake—”
“Maybe you remember now the times she’s said, ‘This is no little daughter of mine’?”