The Very Small Person

“Perhaps now you see why She makes you hem towels and wipe dishes – ”

“And won’t let you eat two pieces of pie – ”

“Or one piece o’ fruit-cake – ”

“Maybe you remember now the times she’s said, ‘This is no little daughter of mine’?”

Margaret turned sharply. “That was only because I was naughty,” she pleaded, strickenly, but she knew in her soul it wasn’t “only because.” She knew it was because. The terror within her was growing more terrible every moment.

Then came shame. Like the evilest of the evil Things it had been lurking in the background waiting its turn, – it was its turn now. Margaret stood quite still, ashamed. She could not name the strange feeling, for she had never been ashamed before, but she sat there a piteous little figure in the grip of it. It was awful to be only nine and feel like that! To shrink from going home past Mrs. Streeter’s and the minister’s and the Enemy’s! – oh, most of all past the Enemy’s! – for fear they’d look out of the window and say, “There goes an adopted!” Perhaps they’d point their fingers. – Margaret closed her eyes dizzily and saw Mrs. Streeter’s plump one and the minister’s lean one and the Enemy’s short brown one, all pointing. She could feel something burning her on her forehead, – it was “Adopted,” branded there.

The Enemy was worst. Margaret crept under the fence just before she got to the Enemy’s house and went a weary, roundabout way home. She could not bear to have this dearest Enemy see her in her disgrace.

Moth – She That had Been – would be wondering why Margaret was late. If she looked sober out of her eyes and said, “This can’t be my little girl, can it?” then Margaret would know for certain. That would be the final proof.