Out-of-doors suddenly a new sound rose shrill above the crickets and the frogs. It was the Enemy singing "Glory, glory, hallelujah." That was the last straw. Margaret writhed deeper into the pillows. She knew what the rest of it was--"Glory, glory, hallelujah, 'tisn't me! _My_ soul goes marching on!" She was out there singing that a-purpose! In her desperate need for some one to lay her trouble to, Margaret "laid it to" the Enemy. A sudden, bitter, unreasoning resentment took possession of her. If there hadn't been an Enemy, there wouldn't have been a trouble. Everything would have been beautiful and--and respectable, just as it was before. _She_ would have been out there singing "Glory, glory hallelujah," too. "She's to blame--I hate her!" came muffledly from the pillows. "Oh, I do!--I can't help it, I do! I'm always going to hate her forevermore! She needn't have--" Needn't have what? What had the little scape-goat out there in the twilight done? But Margaret was beyond reasoning now. "Mine enemy hath done it," was enough for her. If she lived a thousand years--if she lived _two_ thousand--she would never speak to the Enemy again,--never forgive her,--never put her into her prayer again among the God blesses. A plan formulated itself after a while in the dark little room. It was born of the travail of the child's soul. Something must be done--there was something she would do. She began it at once, huddled up against the window to catch the failing light. She would pin it to her pin-cushion where they would find it after--after she was gone. Did folks ever mourn for an Adopted? In her sore heart Margaret yearned to have them mourn. "I have found it out," she wrote with her trembling little fingers. "I don't suppose its wicked becaus I couldent help being one but it is orful. It breaks your hart to find youre one all of a suddin. If I had known before, I would have darned the big holes too. Ime going away becaus I canot bare living with folks I havent any right to. The stik pin this is pined on with is for Her That Wasent Ever my Mother for I love her still. When this you see remember me the rose is red the violet blue sugger is sweet and so are you. "Margaret." She pinned it on tremblingly and then crept back to bed. Perhaps she went to sleep,--at any rate, quite suddenly there were voices at her door--_Her_ voice and--His. She did not stir, but lay and listened to them. "Dear child! Wouldn't you wake her up, Henry? What do you suppose could have happened?" That was the voice that used to be Mother's. It made Margaret feel thrilly and homesick. "Something at school, probably, dear,--you mustn't worry. All sorts of little troubles happen at school." The voice that used to be her Father's. "I know, but this must have been a big one. If you had seen her little face, Henry! If she were Nelly, I should think somebody had been telling her--about her origin, you know--"