"That's my short hair," she answered, smiling back at him, "and not being able to wear my clothes like a grown woman. It's a fact that I can't get used to long skirts, and in Skeaton it's bad form to cross your knees. I try and remember--" she sighed. "The truth is I forget everything just as I used to." "How is Aunt?" she asked him. He looked very grave, and behind his smiles and welcome to her she saw that he was a tired and even exhausted man. "They don't think she can live through the night," he answered her, "but, thank God, she's out of all pain and will never suffer any more. She's tranquil in her mind too, and the one thing she wanted to put her quiet was to see you. She's been worrying about you for months. Why didn't you come up to see us all this time, Maggie? That wasn't kind of you." "No, it wasn't," said 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.