Miggy was like some little bright creature caught unaware in the net of living and still remembering the colonnades of otherwhere, renowned for their shining. She was looking within the sunset, where it was a thing of wings and doors ajar and fair corridors. I saw the great freedoms of sunset in her face--the sunset where Little Child and I had agreed that a certain spirit lived.... Perhaps it was that that little vagrant spirit signalled to me--and the Custodian understood it. Perhaps it was that I saw, beneath the freedoms, the woman-tenderness in the girl's face. In any case I spoke abruptly and half without intention. "But you don't want to be free from Little Child. It is almost as if she were your little girl, is it not?" I said. Miggy's eyes did not leave the sunset. It was rather as if she saw some answer there. "Well, I like to pretend she is," she said simply. "That," I said quietly, "is pleasant to pretend." And now her mood had changed as if some one had come to take her place. "But if she _was_--that," she said, "her name, then, would most likely be Margaret, like mine, wouldn't it?" "It would be very well to have it Margaret," I agreed. Her step was quickened as by sudden shyness. "It's funny to think about," she said. "Sometimes I most think of--her, till she seems in the room. Not quite my sister. I mean _Margaret_." 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. I think that I have never hoped so much that I might know the right thing to say. And when most I wish this I do as I did then: I keep my impulse silent and I see if that vague Custodian within, somewhere between the seeing and the knowing, will not speak for me. I wonder if she did? At all events, what either she or I said was:-- "Miggy! Look everywhere and tell me the most beautiful thing you can see."