“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 God 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.