d Maggie. "But I didn't dare."

"Didn't dare?" he asked, astonished.

"No, there were things all this would have reminded me of too badly. It
wasn't safe to be reminded of them."

"Haven't you been happy, then, there?" he asked her almost in a whisper.

"Oh, I don't know," she didn't look up at him. "I made a mistake in
doing it. It was my fault, not theirs. No, I haven't been happy if you
want to know. And I shan't be. There's no chance. It's all wrong; they
all hate me. I seem to them odd, mad, like a witch they used to burn in
the old days. And I can't alter myself. And I don't want to."

It was amazing what good it did her to bring all this out. She had said
none of it to any one before.

"Oh dear, oh dear," sighed Mr. Magnus. "I hadn't known. I thought it
was all going so well. But don't tell your aunt this. When she asks
you, say you're very, very happy and it's all going perfectly. She must
die at peace. Will you, my dear, will you?"

His almost trembling anxiety touched her.

"Why, dear Mr. Magnus, of course I will. And I am happy now that I'm
back with all of you. All I want is for people to be fond of me, you
know, but there's something in me--" She jumped up and stood in front
of him. "Mr. Magnus! You're wise, you write books, you know all about
things, tell me--tell me the absolute truth. Am I odd, am I queer, am I
like a witch that ought to be burnt at the stake?"

He was deeply touched. He put his hands on her shoulders, then suddenly
drew her to him and kissed her.

"I don't find you odd, my dear, but then, God forgive me, I'm odd
myself. We're all rather odd in this house, I'm afraid. But don't you
worry, Maggie. You're worth a wagon-load of ordinary people."

She drew slowly away. She sighed.

"I wish Paul and Grace only thought so," she said.

They had a quiet little tea together; Maggie was longing to ask Mr.
Magnus questions about himself, but she didn't dare to do so. He
wrapped himself in a reserved friendly melancholy which she could not
penetrate. He looked so much older, so much more faded, as though the
heat and fire had gradually stolen away from him and left him only the
grey ghost of what he had been.

"Are you writing any books, Mr. Magnus?" she asked him.

"Any books?" he answered smiling. "Surely one would be enough, my dear.
I have one half-finished as a matter of fact, but it's not
satisfactory. If it weren't for the bread and butter I don't think I'd
ever tackle it ag