Maggie’s narrow eyes grew wide. Maggie’s sallow face flushed. There came a wild commotion in her heart—a real, genuine sense of downright love for the girl who had done this thing for her. And ten pounds, which meant so very little to Merry Cardew, held untold possibilities for Maggie.
“You will hurt me frightfully if you refuse,” said Merry.
Maggie trembled from head to foot. Suppose, by any chance, it got to Aneta’s ears that she had taken this money from Merry; suppose it got abroad in the school! Oh, she dared not take it! she must not!
“What is it, Maggie? Why don’t you speak?” said Merry, looking at her in astonishment.
“I love you with all my heart and soul,” said Maggie; “but I just can’t take the money.”
“Oh Maggie! but why?”
“I can’t, dear; I can’t. It—it would not be right. You mustn’t lower me in my own estimation. I should feel low down if I took your money. I know well I am poor, and so is dear mother, and the lodgings are fusty and musty, but we are neither of us so poor as that. I’ll never forget that you brought it to me, and I’ll love you just more than I have ever done; but I can’t take it.”
“Do come on, Maggie!” shouted Jackdaw. “Fanciful is dying for his breakfast; and as to Peterkins, he has got Spot-ear out of his cage. Peterkins is crying like anything, and his tears are dropping on Spot-ear, and Spot-ear doesn’t like it. Do come on!”
“Yes, yes; I am coming,” said Maggie—“Good-bye, darling Merry. My best thanks and best love.”
That evening, or in the course of the afternoon, Maggie appeared at Shepherd’s Bush. She had been obliged to travel third-class, and the journey was hot and dusty.