“Never mind,” said Maybee, pulling a feather out of the wing on her hat, to stick in her soldier’s cap. “You saw how pleasant I was, didn’t you?”
“They didn’t skwush your house all to nuffin, an’ you was just showing off, you was. I wish I could fump ’em,” said Tod, excitedly.
“That’s very wicked; you can’t be one of Christ’s soldiers and wish such bad things,” said Maybee, plastering a knapsack on to her soldier. “I do, sometimes,” she added, more humbly, “but I don’t mean to ever again,—much,” and she began singing, louder than before,
“Fought the fight, the victory won.”
Tod worked away, rebuilding his house, putting on two “chimleys” this time. By and by, just as Maybee was giving the finishing touch to her image, he reached over for a fresh handful of snow, lost his balance, and in trying to recover himself, managed to hit the poor soldier in the breast with his elbow, leaving him a shapeless ruin.
Maybee’s black eyes blazed. “Tod Smith! you did it a purpose.”
“Yes’m,” said Tod, sitting coolly down and facing her.
She turned quickly, and lifted one foot. Another moment and Tod’s pretty cottage, with its “merandah” and bay-window, would have shared the fate of its predecessor; but a better thought came suddenly to Maybee, in the words of her song,—
“Fought the fight, the victory won.”
A real victory this would be,—no make-believe, no mere “showing-off,” as Tod had called it; and to tell the truth, she did feel just like the Pharisee mamma read about all the time she was being so polite, but now she was—oh, so dreadfully angry! If she could speak pleasant, wouldn’t that be “ruling her spirit,” “real, sure-enough.”