It made my heart beat somewhat. I wondered if anything of my story to Little Child was left in my mind, and if subconsciously Miggy was reading it. This has sometimes happened to me with a definiteness which would be surprising if the supernatural were to me less natural. But I think that it was merely because Miggy had no idea of the sanctity of what she felt that she was speaking of it.
"How does she look?" I asked.
"Like me," said Miggy, readily; "I don't want her to either. I want her to be pretty and I'm not. But when I think of her running 'round in the house or on the street, I always make her look like me. Only little."
"Running 'round in the house." That was the way my neighbour had put it. Perhaps it is the way that every woman puts it.
"Does she seem like you, too?" I tempted her on.
"Oh, better," Miggy said confidently; "learning to play on the piano and not much afraid of folks and real happy."
"Don't you ever pretend about a boy?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"No," she said; "if I do—I never can think him out real plain. Margaret I can most see."
And this, too, was like the girl in the garden and the spirit of that one to be called by a name of one whom she had not seen.