But Maggie was overwhelmed, and could not possibly have answered if she had wished to do so ever so much.
“Maggie,” said Kate, seeing no way to spare the child further confusion but by taking her away, “you have not enough green with those flowers. Come over there, I see some pretty leaves, and we will gather them.”
Maggie sprang to her feet, letting the flowers fall to the ground, and seized eagerly upon the kind hand held out for her relief. The tears, which she had been struggling to hold back, flowed freely the moment she was beyond the sound of her tormentor’s voice; but she felt better for them and for Kate’s sympathy.
“Never mind, dear,” said Kate, soothingly. “I know the poetry is yours, Maggie, and it is very nice indeed; but I would not say so before Charlie and Mary. I thought you would not like it. George Temple could not have written it himself, and he ought to be ashamed to tease you so.”
“It’s too, too mean,” sobbed Maggie; “and that man is too horrid. I didn’t really mean I hated him; but now I most feel as if I did.”
Meanwhile Bessie, who had lingered a moment to pick up Maggie’s flowers, was receiving in dignified silence Mr. Temple’s questions as he asked “what ailed her sister?”
“What is the matter, George?” said Miss Temple, seeing something was wrong. “Are you teasing Maggie? Are those verses hers?”
“I told you they were Anon.,” replied her brother.
This was a little too much. It was quite bad enough for Mr. Temple to torment Maggie so; but that he should give the credit of those beautiful verses to another, was more than could be borne, and Bessie turned upon him, saying, with the utmost severity, but without passion,—