“But you are good, aren’t you?” asked the Child.
“I don’t know,” doubtfully answered Arabella, “you didn’t pay much attention to that. I guess I’m too uncomfortable to be good. I suppose you think that I am not real and it doesn’t matter, but you see I am real—to you. You had to think me out. And so I can only be what you are—that is, what you love and think and want. Do you understand?”
“I see,” the Child reflected.
“And it’s the real that counts,” continued Arabella. “You can’t always judge from the outside—either of people or things.”
“No,” put in the Child eagerly, “I know that. It’s that way with my sums. Sometimes I will do my figures so carefully and the example will look lovely when, after all, it’s full of mistakes.”
“And there’s another thing,” replied Arabella, “your pride, I mean. As a matter of fact, you’re writing this story for yourself and not for Lady-Mother. And, candidly,” she added, “it’s nothing to be proud of. We’re not much of a success!”
It was blunt but the Child knew that it was true. She was silent for a time, then she said, “It would be a good deal of trouble to make you all over again and, anyway, I guess I don’t know enough—yet. You won’t mind if I don’t?” she inquired anxiously.
“Not a bit,” Arabella assured her.
The Child was getting sleepy and Arabella saw it. “Come,” she said to Sir Marmaduke. “We’re staying too long.” He rose obediently.
“O, must you go?” asked the Child politely. “Do come again and—that is—of course maybe you couldn’t—but still—” her voice grew fainter and fainter. Arabella and Sir Marmaduke faded away and presently—