e was something she would do. She began it at once, huddled
up against the window to catch the failing light. She would pin it to
her pin-cushion where they would find it after--after she was gone.
Did folks ever mourn for an Adopted? In her sore heart Margaret
yearned to have them mourn.

"I have found it out," she wrote with her trembling little
fingers. "I don't suppose its wicked becaus I couldent help being one
but it is orful. It breaks your hart to find youre one all of a
suddin. If I had known before, I would have darned the big holes too.
Ime going away becaus I canot bare living with folks I havent any
right to. The stik pin this is pined on with is for Her That Wasent
Ever my Mother for I love her still. When this you see remember me
the rose is red the violet blue sugger is sweet and so are you.

"Margaret."

She pinned it on tremblingly and then crept back to bed. Perhaps
she went to sleep,--at any rate, quite suddenly there were voices at
her door--_Her_ voice and--His. She did not stir, but lay and
listened to them.

"Dear child! Wouldn't you wake her up, Henry? What do you suppose
could have happened?" That was the voice that used to be Mother's.
It made Margaret feel thrilly and homesick.

"Something at school, probably, dear,--you mustn't worry. All sorts
of little troubles happen at school." The voice that used to be her
Father's.

"I know, but this must have been a big one. If you had seen her
little face, Henry! If she were Nelly, I should think somebody had
been telling her--about her origin, you know--"

Margaret held her breath. Nelly was the Enemy, but what was an
origin? This thing that they were saying--hark?

"I've always expected Nelly to find out that way--it would be so much
kinder to tell her at home. You know it would, Henry, instead of
letting her hear it from strangers and get her poor little heart
broken. Henry, if God hadn't given us a precious little child of our
own and we had ever adopted--"

Margaret dashed off the quilts and leaped to the floor with a cry of
ecstasy. The anguish--the shame--the cruel gibing Things--were left
behind her; they had slid from her burdened little heart at the first
glorious rush of understanding; they would never come back,--never
come back,--never come back to Margaret! Glory, glory, hallelujah,
'twasn't her! _Her_ soul went marching on!

The two at the door suffered an unexpected, an amazing onslaught from
a flying little figure. It