"There, that'll do," said mother, stopping me at full tide. "I would be glad to please my little girl if I thought it would be right; but I have said No once, and after that, Margaret, you know how foolish it is to tease."
Didn't I know, to my sorrow? As foolish as it would be to stand and fire popguns at the rock of Gibraltar.
I rushed out to the barn, and never stopped to look behind me. Fel followed, crying softly; but what had I to say to that dear little friend, who felt my sorrows almost as if they were her own?
"You didn't ask my mamma pretty, and that's why she wouldn't give me no pairsol."
No thanks for the kind office she had performed for me; no apology for calling her a lie-girl. Only,—
"You didn't ask my mamma pretty, Fel Allen."
She choked down one little sob that ought to have broken my heart, and turned and went away. You wonder she should have loved me. I suppose I had "good fits;" they say I was honey-sweet sometimes; but as I recall my little days, it does seem to me as if I was always, always snubbing that precious child. When she was out of sight, I dived head first into the hay, and tried for as much as ten minutes to hate my mother. After a long season of sulks, such as it is to be hoped none of you ever indulged in, I stole back to the house through the shed, and Ruth, who did not know what had broken my heart, exclaimed,—
"Why, Maggie, what ails you? You've fairly cried your eyes out, child!"
I climbed a chair, and looked in the glass, which hung between the kitchen windows, and sure enough I was a sight to behold. My eyes, always very large, were now red and swollen, and seemed bursting from their sockets. I had never thought before that eyes could burst; but now I ran to Ruthie in alarm.
"I have cried my eyes out! O, Ruthie, I've started 'em!"