“Well,” Cicely said to her as they were hurrying from the shady woods in the direction of the picnic-tea, “what is wrong with you, Merry? Have you a headache?”
“Oh no; I am perfectly all right,” said Merry, brightening 72 up. “It’s only—well, to say the truth, I am sorry that Maggie is going to-morrow.”
“You are very fond of her, aren’t you?” said Cicely.
“Well, yes; that is it, I am,” said Merry.
“We’ll see plenty of her at school, anyway,” said Cicely.
“I wish she were rich,” said Merry. “I hate to think of her as poor.”
“Is she poor?” asked Cicely.
“Oh yes; she was just telling me, poor darling!”
“I don’t understand what it means to be poor,” said Cicely. “People say it is very bad, but somehow I can’t take it in.”
“Maggie takes it in, at any rate,” said Merry. “Think of us to-morrow, Cicely, having more fun, being out again in the open air, having pleasant companions all round us, and our beautiful home to go back to, and our parents, whom we love so dearly; and then, next week, of the house by the sea, and Aneta and Molly and Isabel our companions.”