“Well, of course,” said Cicely.
“And then think of poor Maggie,” continued Merry. “She’ll be shut up in a musty, fusty London lodging. I can’t think how she endures it.”
“I don’t know what a musty, fusty lodging is,” said Cicely; “but she could have come with us, because mother invited her.”
“She can’t, because her own mother wants her. Oh dear! I wish we could have her and her mother too.”
“Come on now, Merry, I don’t think we ought to ask father and mother to invite Mrs. Howland.”
“Of course not. I quite understand that,” replied Merry. “Nevertheless, I am a little sad about dear Maggie.”
Merry’s sadness took a practical form. She thought a great deal about her friend during the rest of that day, although Maggie rather avoided her. She thought, in particular, of Maggie’s poverty, and wondered what poverty really meant. The poor people—those who were called poor at Meredith—did not really suffer at all, for it was the bounden duty of the squire of the Manor to see to all their wants, to provide them with comfortable houses and nice gardens, and if they were ill to give them the advice of a good doctor, also to send them nourishing food from the Manor. But poor people of that sort were quite different from the Maggie Howland sort. Merry could not imagine any lord of the manor taking Maggie and Mrs. Howland in hand and providing them with all the good things of life.
But all of a sudden it darted through her eager, affectionate little heart that she herself might be lord of the manor to Maggie, and might help Maggie out of her own abundance. If it were impossible to get Maggie Howland and her mother both invited to Scarborough, why should not she, Merry, provide Maggie with means to take her mother from the fusty, dusty lodgings to another seaside resort?
Merry thought over this for some time, and the more she 73 thought over it the more enamored she was of the idea. She and Cicely had, of course, no special means of their own, nor could they have until they came of age. Nevertheless, they were allowed as pocket-money ten pounds every quarter. Now, Merry’s ten pounds would be due in a week. She really did not want it. When she got it she spent it mostly on presents for her friends and little gifts for the villagers; but on this occasion she might give it all in one lump sum to Maggie Howland. Surely her father would let her have it? She might give it to Maggie early to-morrow morning. Maggie would not be too proud to accept it just as a tiny present.
Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of assuring Maggie of her friendship to present Maggie with her quarter’s pocket-money.