Margaret saw the tears, and understood—this tender, new-found mother of hers was grieved; she must be comforted. To the best of her ability, therefore, Margaret promptly proceeded to administer that comfort.
“Pooh! ‘twa’n’t nothin’,” she asserted stoutly; “besides, I runned away, and then I had a tiptop place—a whole corner of Mis’ Whalen’s kitchen, and jest me and Patty and the twins to stay in it. We divvied up everythin’, and some days we had heaps to eat—truly we did—heaps! And I went to Mont-Lawn two times, and of course there I had everythin’, even beds with sheets, you know; and——”
“Margaret, Margaret, don’t, dear!” interrupted her mother. “I can’t bear even to think of it.”
Margaret’s eyes grew puzzled.
“But that was bang-up—all of it,” she protested earnestly. “Why, I didn’t paste bags nor sew buttons, and nobody didn’t strike me for not doin’ ’em, neither; and Mis’ Whalen was good and showed me how to make flowers—for pay, too! And——”
“Yes, dear, I know,” interposed Mrs. Kendall again; “but suppose we don’t think any more of all that, sweetheart. You are home now, darling, right here with mother. Come, we will go out into the garden.” To Mrs. Kendall it seemed at the moment that only God’s blessed out-of-doors was wide enough and beautiful enough to clear from her eyes the pictures Margaret’s words had painted.
Out in the garden Margaret drew a long breath.
“Oh!” she cooed softly, caressing with her cheek a great red rose. “I knew flowers smelled good, but I didn’t find it out for sure till I went to Mont-Lawn that first time. You see the kind we made was cloth and stiff, and they didn’t smell good a mite—oh, you’ve picked it!” she broke off, half-rapturously, half-regretfully, as Mrs. Kendall placed in her hands the great red rose.
“Yes, pick all you like, dear,” smiled Mrs. Kendall, reaching for another flower.
“But they’ll die,” stammered Margaret, “and then the others won’t see them.”