“Bobby, that’s just it,” she whispered, looking fearfully over her shoulder to make sure that no one heard. “That’s just it—I’m not a-learnin’!”
“Why not?”
“Because of them—Tom, and Patty, and the rest”
Bobby looked dazed, and Margaret plunged headlong into her explanation.
“It’s them. They do ’em—all of ’em. Don’t you see? They say ‘ain’t’ and ‘gee’ and ‘bully’ all the time, and I see now how bad ’tis, and I want to stop. But I can’t stop, Bobby. I just can’t. I try to, but it just comes before I know it. I tried to stop them sayin’ ’em, first,” went on Margaret, feverishly, “just as I tried to make ’em act ladylike with their feet and their knives and forks; but it didn’t do a mite o’ good. First they laughed at me, then they got mad. You know how ’twas, Bobby. You saw ’em.”
Bobby whistled.
“Yes, I know,” he said soberly. “But when they go away——”
“That’s just it,” cut in Margaret, tragically. “I wa’n’t goin’ to have them go away. I was goin’ to keep ’em always; and now I—Bobby, I want them to go!” she paused and let the full enormity of her confession sink into her hearer’s comprehension. Then she repeated: “I want them to go!”
“Well, what of it?” retorted Bobby, with airy unconcern.
“What of it!” wept Margaret. “Why, Bobby, don’t you see? I was goin’ to divvy up, and I ought to divvy up, too. I’ve got trees and grass and flowers and beds with sheets on ’em and enough to eat, and they hain’t got anything—not anything. And now I don’t want to divvy up, I don’t want to divvy up, because I don’t want them—here!”