“The match does not come off until four,” Margery said, “and if you can give me till half-past two I shall be so glad.”
But Miss Anna was decided; she must have it at twelve, or not at all, and when Margery asked if she would send for it, as the girl who usually took parcels home was sick, she answered promptly;
“No, it is not my business to do that.”
And Margery bore the girl’s insolence quietly, and promised that the dress should be done, and put aside Mrs. Col. Markham’s work to do it, because she knew Mrs. Markham was a lady and would not insult her if she chanced to be disappointed. But she felt the ill-bred girl’s impertinence keenly, and her cheeks were unusually red, and her lips very white, when her mother entered the room, and, bending over her, kissed her with a great, glad tenderness as we kiss one restored to us from the gates of death.
“You look tired and worried, ma petite,” she said, “and you are working so fast. I thought that dress was not to be finished till to-morrow.”
“Nor was it,” Margery answered, “but Miss Ferguson has been here and insists upon having it at twelve, and she was so overbearing, and found so much fault, and made me feel so keenly that I was only her dressmaker, that I am a little upset, even though I know she is not worth a moment’s disquietude.”
“Poor Margery! It is to the caprices of such people as she that you are subjected because you are poor,” Mrs. La Rue said, caressing the golden head bent so low over Anna’s navy-blue, on the sleeve of which a great tear came near falling. “You ought to be rich, like Miss Hetherton. You would be happier in her place, would you not, my child?”
“No, mother,” and Margery’s beautiful blue eyes looked frankly up into her mother’s face. “I should like money, of course, but I am very happy as I am except when people like Anna insult me and try to make me feel the immeasurable distance there is between themselves and a dressmaker. I like my profession, for it is as much one as that of the artist or musician, and if I were rich as Queenie I do believe I should still make dresses for the love of it. So, mother mine, don’t bother about me. I am very happy—happier far, just now, than Queenie, who, though she may have riches in abundance, has no mother to love her, and care for her, and pet her, as I have.”
“Oh, Margery, child, you do love me, then you are glad I am your mother, unlike you as I am?” Mrs. La Rue cried in a voice which was like a sob of pain, and made Margery look wonderingly at her, as she said:
“Why, mother, how strangely you act this morning. Of course I am glad you are my mother—the dearest and kindest a girl ever had. I cannot remember the time when you would not and did not sacrifice everything for me, and why should I not love you?”