“Well, I do, then. We are not—and that’s the first step up the Hill of Difficulty.”
IV
All their lives the children had acted in unison. When they had been tiny creatures they had played the same games and used the same toys. It had seemed of little importance that their belongings were those of a boy and girl. When Robin had played with tops and marbles, Meg had played with them too. When Meg had been in a domestic and maternal mood, and had turned to dolls and dolls’ housekeeping, Robin had assumed some masculine rôle connected with the amusement. It had entertained him as much at times to be the dolls’ doctor, or the carpenter who repaired the dolls’ furniture or made plans for the enlargement of the dolls’ house, as it had entertained Meg to sew the flags and dress the sailors who manned his miniature ships, and assist him with the tails of his kites. They had had few playmates, and had pleased each other far better than outsiders could have done.
“It’s because we are twins,” Meg said. “Twins are made alike, and so they like the same things. I’m glad I’m a twin. If I had to be born again and be an un-twin I’m sure I should be lonely.”
“I don’t think it matters whether you are a boy or a girl, if you are a twin,” said Robin. “You are part of the other one, and so it’s as if you were both.”
They had never had secrets from each other. They had read the same books as they grew older, been thrilled by the same stories, and shared in each other’s plans and imaginings or depressions. So it was a curious thing that at this special time, when they were drawn nearest to one another by an unusual interest and sympathy, there should have arrived a morning when each rose with a thought unshared by the other.
Aunt Matilda was very busy that day. She was always busy, but this morning seemed more actively occupied than usual. She never appeared to sit down, unless to dispose of a hurried meal or go over some accounts. She was a wonderful woman, and the twins knew that the most objectionable thing they could do was not to remove themselves after a repast was over; but this morning Meg walked over to a chair and firmly sat down in it, and watched her as she vigorously moved things about, rubbed dust off them, and put them in their right places.
Meg’s eyes were fixed on her very steadily. She wondered if it was true that she and Robin were like her, and if they would be more like her when they had reached her age, and what would have happened to them before that time came. It was true that Aunt Matilda had a square jaw also. It was not an encouraging thing to contemplate; in fact, as she looked at her, Meg felt her heart begin a slow and steady thumping. But, as it thumped, she was getting herself in hand with such determination that when she at last spoke her chin looked very square indeed, and her black-lashed eyes were as nearly stern as a child’s eyes can look.
“Aunt Matilda,” she said, suddenly.
“Well?” and a tablecloth was whisked off and shaken.