. . God drew me to
Himself . . . You too must come, Maggie--you must come. You mustn't
stay outside--you are asked, you are invited--perhaps you will be
compelled . . ."
The voice sank: Maggie's teeth chattered in her head from the cold,
and her foot had gone to sleep. She felt obstinate and rebellious
and frightened, she could not think clearly, and the words that came
from her, suddenly, seemed to her not to be her own.
"Aunt Anne, I want to do everything that you and Aunt Elizabeth
think I should, but I must be myself, mustn't I? I'm grown up now;
I've got my three hundred pounds and I don't think I want to be
religious. I'm very grateful to you and Aunt Elizabeth, but I'm not
a help to you much, I'm afraid. I know I'm very careless, I do want
to be better, and that's all the more reason, perhaps, why I should
go out and earn my own living. I'd learn more quickly then. But I do
love you and Aunt Elizabeth . . ."
She broke off; she did not love them. She knew that she did not. The
only human being in all the world whom she loved was Martin.
Nevertheless there did come to her suddenly then a new tenderness
for her aunt; the actual sight of her pain in the Chapel had deeply
touched her and now her eagerness for escape was mingled with a
longing to be affectionate and good.
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