Miggy was like some little bright creature caught unaware in the net of living and still remembering the colonnades of otherwhere, renowned for their shining. She was looking within the sunset, where it was a thing of wings and doors ajar and fair corridors. I saw the great freedoms of sunset in her face—the sunset where Little Child and I had agreed that a certain spirit lived.... Perhaps it was that that little vagrant spirit signalled to me—and the Custodian understood it. Perhaps it was that I saw, beneath the freedoms, the woman-tenderness in the girl's face. In any case I spoke abruptly and half without intention.
"But you don't want to be free from Little Child. It is almost as if she were your little girl, is it not?" I said.
Miggy's eyes did not leave the sunset. It was rather as if she saw some answer there.
"Well, I like to pretend she is," she said simply.
"That," I said quietly, "is pleasant to pretend."
And now her mood had changed as if some one had come to take her place.
"But if she was—that," she said, "her name, then, would most likely be Margaret, like mine, wouldn't it?"
"It would be very well to have it Margaret," I agreed.
Her step was quickened as by sudden shyness.
"It's funny to think about," she said. "Sometimes I most think of—her, till she seems in the room. Not quite my sister. I mean Margaret."