“I don’t know what to say.”
“Let me present a picture to you,” continued Maggie. “There are two girls; they are not equally equipped for the battle of life. I say nothing of injustice in the matter; I only state a fact. One of them is rich and highly born, and endowed with remarkable beauty of face. That girl is your own cousin, Aneta Lysle. Then there is the other girl, Maggie Howland, who is ugly.”
“Oh no—no!” said Merry affectionately.
“Yes, darling,” said Maggie, using her most magnetic voice, “really ugly.”
“Not in my eyes,” said Merry.
“She is ugly,” repeated Maggie, speaking with great calm; “and—yes—she is poor. I will tell you as a great secret—I 69 have never breathed it to a soul yet—that it would be impossible for this girl to be an inmate of Aylmer House if Mrs. Ward, in the kindness of her great heart, had not offered her very special terms. You will never breathe that, Merry, not even to Cicely?”
“Oh, poor Maggie!” said Merry, “are you really—really as poor as that?”
“Church mice aren’t poorer,” said Maggie. “But never mind; I have got something which even your Aneta hasn’t got. I have talent, and I have the power—the power of charming. I want most earnestly to be your special friend, Merry. I have a very affectionate heart, and I love you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel more than I can say; but of all you four girls I love you the best. You come first in my heart; and to see you at my school turning away from me and going altogether to Aneta’s side would give me agony. There, I can’t help it. Forgive me. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
Maggie turned her face aside. She had taken out her handkerchief and was pressing it to her eyes. Real tears had filled them, for her emotions were genuine enough.
“Don’t you think,” she said after a pause, “that you, who are so rich in this world’s goods, might be kind and loving to a poor little plain girl who loves you but who has got very little?”