Margaret covered her face with her hands and rocked herself to and fro. Bobby was silent. His hands were in his pocket, and his eyes were on an ant struggling with a burden almost as large as itself.
“Don’t you see, Bobby, it’s wicked that I am—awful wicked,” resumed Margaret, after a minute. “I want to be nice and gentle like mother wants me to be. I don’t want to be Mag of the Alley. I—I hate Mag of the Alley. But if Tom and Patty and the rest stays I shall be just like them, Bobby, I know I shall; and—and so I don’t want ’em to stay.”
Bobby stirred uneasily, changing his position.
“Well, you—you hain’t asked ’em to, yet; have ye?” he questioned.
“No. Mother ‘spressly stip’lated that I shouldn’t say anything about their stayin’ always till their visit was over and they saw how they liked things.”
“Shucks!” rejoined Bobby, his face clearing. “Then what ye cryin’ ‘bout? You ain’t bound by no contract. You don’t have ter divvy up.”
“But I ought to divvy up.”
“Pooh! ‘Course ye hadn’t,” scoffed Bobby. “Hain’t folks got a right ter have their own things?”
Margaret frowned doubtfully.
“I don’t know,” she began with some hesitation. “If I’ve got nice things and more of ’em than Patty has, why shouldn’t she have some of mine? ’Tain’t fair, somehow. Somebody ain’t playin’ straight. I—I’m goin’ to ask mother.” And she turned slowly away and began to walk toward the house.