“Of course,” Meg admitted reluctantly, “it isn’t exactly the color one could wear red with,—not but what I would if I wanted to.”
Mrs. Malloy threw her head back and laughed, and her laugh was as pleasant as it was rare.
Meg looked at her in a pleased manner. Then Mrs. Malloy said: “What a spunky little girl you are! It’s regular red-headed spunk, though of course your hair is not red. My dear, it’s a blessing you are so independent, having no one to do your fighting for you.”
The wistful look came back into Meg’s eyes as she answered: “It has never seemed just right that I didn’t have a father, or mother, or even a big brother to take care of me. Sometimes,—” there was a little catch in her voice,—“oh, dear Mrs. Malloy, sometimes I feel as if there were no fight left in me!”
“You poor little thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Malloy, reaching out for her hand, “this is really yourself that I see now,—a little tame canary made wild because it has no one to shield it, and must look out for itself!”
Meg looked at her adoringly.
“You are the first person I have ever known who has seemed to understand me, and somehow, I feel that my mother was like you. You won’t laugh at me or tell any one if I tell you something?” she asked anxiously.
“You may count on my silence and sympathy, dear.”
“When I was a little girl, my principal amusement was to ‘pretend’ things. I would pretend I was a princess, or something else equally improbable. One day, I wanted some one else to play with me so badly, that I told Aunt Amelia about it.”
“Yes?” queried Mrs. Malloy softly, as she paused.