Maggie spoke rapidly, with glistening eyes.
“Take that volume home with you, Maggie,” said Philip, watching her with delight. “I don’t want it now. I shall make a picture of you instead,—you, among the Scotch firs and the slanting shadows.”
Maggie had not heard a word he had said; she was absorbed in a page at which she had opened. But suddenly she closed the book, and gave it back to Philip, shaking her head with a backward movement, as if to say “avaunt” to floating visions.
“Do keep it, Maggie,” said Philip, entreatingly; “it will give you pleasure.”
“No, thank you,” said Maggie, putting it aside with her hand and walking on. “It would make me in love with this world again, as I used to be; it would make me long to see and know many things; it would make me long for a full life.”
“But you will not always be shut up in your present lot; why should you starve your mind in that way? It is narrow asceticism; I don’t like to see you persisting in it, Maggie. Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure.”
“But not for me, not for me,” said Maggie, walking more hurriedly; “because I should want too much. I must wait; this life will not last long.”
“Don’t hurry away from me without saying ‘good-by,’ Maggie,” said Philip, as they reached the group of Scotch firs, and she continued still to walk along without speaking. “I must not go any farther, I think, must I?”
“Oh no, I forgot; good-by,” said Maggie, pausing, and putting out her hand to him. The action brought her feeling back in a strong current to Philip; and after they had stood looking at each other in silence for a few moments, with their hands clasped, she said, withdrawing her hand:
“I’m very grateful to you for thinking of me all those years. It is very sweet to have people love us. What a wonderful, beautiful thing it seems that God should have made your heart so that you could care about a queer little girl whom you only knew for a few weeks! I remember saying to you that I thought you cared for me more than Tom did.”