It was half an hour later, when Mr. Smith and Benny were walking across the common together, that Benny asked an abrupt question.
“Is Aunt Maggie goin’ ter be put in your book, Mr. Smith?”
“Why—er—yes; her name will be entered as the daughter of the man who married the Widow Blaisdell, probably. Why?”
“Nothin’. I was only thinkin’. I hoped she was. Aunt Maggie don’t have nothin’ much, yer know, except her father an’ housework—housework either for him or some of us. An’ I guess she’s had quite a lot of things ter bother her, an’ make her feel bad, so I hoped she’d be in the book. Though if she wasn’t, she’d just laugh an’ say it doesn’t matter, of course. That’s what she always says.”
“Always says?” Mr. Smith’s voice was mildly puzzled. “Yes, when things plague, an’ somethin’ don’t go right. She says it helps a lot ter just remember that it doesn’t matter. See?”
“Well, no,—I don’t think I do see,” frowned Mr. Smith.
“Oh, yes,” plunged in Benny; “’cause, you see, if yer stop ter think about it—this thing that’s plaguin’ ye—you’ll see how really small an’ no-account it is, an’ how, when you put it beside really big things it doesn’t matter at all—it doesn’t really matter, ye know. Aunt Maggie says she’s done it years an’ years, ever since she was just a girl, an’ somethin’ bothered her; an’ it’s helped a lot.”
“But there are lots of things that do matter,” persisted Mr. Smith, still frowning.
“Oh, yes!” Benny swelled a bit importantly, “I know what you mean. Aunt Maggie says that, too; an’ she says we must be very careful an’ not get it wrong. It’s only the little things that bother us, an’ that we wish were different, that we must say ‘It doesn’t matter’ about. It does matter whether we’re good an’ kind an’ tell the truth an’ shame the devil; but it doesn’t matter whether we have ter live on the West Side an’ eat dinner nights instead of noons, an’ not eat cookies any of the time in the house,—see?”
“Good for you, Benny,—and good for Aunt Maggie!” laughed Mr. Smith suddenly.