Throwing that disagreeable thought aside, she went on. How _could_ it all be changed? Perhaps some rich, unheard-of relative of her mother’s would die and leave a vast fortune to her as her mother’s only daughter. Then what would she do? She would give her father enough so that he wouldn’t have to work anymore. She would—yes, she would show a very Christian spirit toward Mrs. Moore. She would re-furnish the house, and hire several servants for her, and give her enough to buy beautiful dresses. The boys should be sent to college, and she,—she would go off to boarding-school and study as much as she liked, and never have to stay home and wash dishes. She would have plenty of money to give away. She would buy a great many flowers to give to poor sick people. Her room should be beautifully furnished, and she would invite all the poor girls in school there and give them nice times. She was just treating those imaginary girls to chocolate creams and marshmallow drops, when she heard her father’s step coming swiftly down the street, and his voice say: “Margaret, you should not be out in this chilly night air.” Then she turned and followed him into the house. She had to give up her musings for a while and help Johnnie with his arithmetic lesson, but she promised herself more castle-building when she went to her own room, before she slept. But presently her father called her. “Margaret,” he said, “I have a letter here from your Aunt Cornelia. She wishes you to come and spend the winter with her and attend school. Would you like to go?” Margaret’s heart bounded with joy. Not alone with the pleasure of going to Aunt Cornelia, but with a sort of triumphant feeling that her prayer was answered, and that so soon. She resolved complacently that she should always pray for everything. Poor child! She thought her faith was very great. It was quite dark in the room and Margaret could not see her father’s face as he said this, but his voice was very kind. The door into the hall was partly open, and the streak of light which came from it fell upon the sofa, and showed the dim outlines of Mrs. Moore lying there with her head bound up in a handkerchief. There was a faint odor of camphor and vinegar pervading the room and Margaret’s conscience smote her as she remembered her hard thoughts out by the gate. Perhaps Mrs. Moore had been suffering all day from a sick headache, and that was why she was so severe. The little girl’s heart softened and she resolved to pray that the headache be cured, which, however, she forgot to do. You must remember how full her heart was of excitement, and pity this poor young Christian. It was all settled that evening that she should go in a week, and she went up to her room to write a letter overflowing with thanks to dear Aunt Cornelia, and then went to bed to dream of the new life.