“Can’t you do it now?”
“Dere ain’t no time, when six kids is to be looked after—on’y maybe a bit at night when dey is all in bed.”
“What is the something you want to do for yourself, Maggie? Maybe I can help you a bit now,” offered Uncle Ben, hoping to win the little girl’s confidence.
It was not difficult, as Maggie was frank and confiding by nature, so she stopped short in the pathway and exclaimed rapturously:
“Oh Mister Uncle Ben! I loves de flowers growin’, I loves pickshers! I loves pritty people like Miss Martin an’ de Blue Birds an’ you! An’ oh! how I loves singin’!”
Uncle Ben had the information he wanted! But still he drew her out.
“Why, Maggie, no one would call Miss Martin or me pretty! And some of the Blue Birds and Bobolinks are not nearly as good-looking as you are,—if you were plump you would be as pretty as anyone.”
“Mister Uncle Ben, you don’t unnerstan’!” replied Maggie, with a worried expression. “I diden’ mean looks, don’che know—I mean somethin’ else, but I can’t call it like I wantta!”
“I understand, Maggie; and I know that you wish to call it ‘individuality,’ or the mental beauty of the soul. It is this grace of each one’s thought-power that makes true beauty and attractiveness.”
“Dat’s it—yes, dat’s it, Mister Uncle Ben! But I diden’ know how to say it!” cried Maggie, her eyes shining.