"Yes, I know I should be; but suppose you were in my shoes, would you be happy?" She turned to the girls with the gravity of fate itself. As neither one made any reply, she went on: "See what I am—absolutely dependent on those who, not so very long ago, were entire strangers. I have no claims on them whatever. Oh, don't think I am ungrateful," she cried in answer to a gesture of protest from Nan. "I would make any sacrifice for them—I would do anything—but you see how it is. I can do nothing; I am perfectly helpless. I—but really, I ought not to talk so before you two children."
"Children! well, I thank you!" exclaimed Eugenia, rising and making a mock curtsey. "Nan is nearly as old as you are, and I am two days older."
"No matter; I have no business to be bringing my troubles into this giddy company; but as I was coming across the street, I happened to think of the difference in our positions. Talk about jealousy! I am jealous and envious. Yes, and mean; I have terrible thoughts sometimes. I wouldn't dare to tell you what they are."
"I know better," said Nan; "you never had a mean thought in your life. Aunt Fanny says you are the sweetest creature in the world."
"Don't! don't tell me such things as that, Nan. You will run me wild. There never was another woman like Aunt Fanny. And, oh, I love her! But if I could get away and become independent, and in some way pay them back for all they have done for me, and for all they hope to do, I'd be the happiest girl in the world."
"I think I know how you feel," said Nan, with a quick apprehension of the situation; "but if I were in your place, and couldn't help myself, I wouldn't let it trouble me much."
"Very well said," Mrs. Claiborne remarked, as she entered the room. "Nan, you are becoming quite a philosopher. And how is Margaret?" she inquired, kissing that blushing maiden on the check.
"I am quite well, I thank you, but I'd be a great deal better if I thought you hadn't heard my foolish talk."
"I heard a part of it, and it wasn't foolish at all. The feeling does you credit, provided you don't carry it too far. You are alone too much; you take your feelings too seriously. You must remember that you are nothing but a child; you are just beginning life. You should cultivate bright thoughts. My dear, let me tell you one thing—if Pulaski Tomlin had any idea that you had such feelings as you have expressed here, he would be miserable; he would be miserable, and you would never know it. You said something about gratitude; well if you want to show any gratitude and make those two people happy, be happy yourself—and if you can't really be happy, pretend that you are happy. And the first thing you know, it will be a reality. Now, I have had worse troubles than ever fell to your portion and if I had brooded over them, I should have been miserable. Your lot is a very fortunate one, as you will discover when you are older."
This advice was very good, though it may have a familiar sound to the reader, and Margaret tried hard for the time being to follow it. She succeeded so well that her laughter became as loud and as joyous as that of her companions, and when she returned home, her countenance was so free from care and worry that both Neighbour Tomlin and his sister remarked it, and they were the happier for it.