"Margaret!" I exclaimed, laying my hand gently on her quivering shoulder, "what is the matter? What can have excited you in this manner? Don't, Madge,—you terrify me."
"I can't help it," she sobbed. "Now I have began, I can't stop. O dear, what a fool I am! There is nothing the matter with me. I don't know what makes me cry; but I can't help it,—I hate myself,—I can't bear myself, and yet I can't change myself. Nobody that I care for will ever love me. I am such a hoyden—such a romp—I disgust every one that comes near me; and yet I can't be gentle and sweet like you, if I die. I used to think because I made everybody laugh, they liked me. People said, 'Oh! there's Madge, she will keep us alive.' And I thought it was a fine thing to be called Wild Madge, and Meg the Dauntless; I begin to hate the names; I begin to blush when I think of myself."
And Margaret lifted her head, and the feelings of lately awakened womanhood crimsoned her cheeks, and streamed from her eyes. I was electrified. What prophet hand had smitten the rock? What power had drawn up the rosy fluid from the Artesian well of her heart?
"My dear Margaret," I cried, "I hail this moment as the dawn of a new life in your soul. Your childhood has lingered long, but the moment you feel that you have the heart of a woman, you will discard the follies of a child. Now you begin to live, when you are conscious of the golden moments you have wasted, the noble capacities you have never yet exerted. Oh Margaret, I feel more and more every day I live, that I was born for something more than the enjoyment of the passing moment,—that life was given for a more exalted purpose than self-gratification, and that as we use or abuse this gift of God we become heirs of glory or of shame."
Margaret listened with a subdued countenance and a long drawn sigh. She strenuously wiped away the traces of her tears, and shook back the hair from her brow, with a resolute motion.
"You despise me—I know you do," she said, gloomily.
"No, indeed," I answered, "I never liked you half as well before; I doubted your sensibility. Now, I see you can feel, and feel acutely. I shall henceforth think of you with interest, and speak of you with tenderness."
"You are the dearest, sweetest creature in the world," she exclaimed, putting both arms around me with unwonted gentleness; "I shall always love you, and will try to remember all you have said to me to-night. We shall meet in the summer, and you shall see, oh yes, you shall see. Dear me—what a fright I have made of myself."
She had risen, and was glancing at herself in the Psyche, which, supported by two charming Cupids, reflected the figure full length.
"I never will cry again if I can help it," she exclaimed. "These horrid red circles round the eyes,—and my eyes, too, are as red as a rabbit's. The heroines of novels are always said to look lovelier in tears; but you are the only person I ever saw who looked pretty after weeping."