You sometimes wish in your vexation, as you see her running, that she
would fall and hurt herself badly; but the next moment it seems a very
wicked wish, and you renounce it. Once she did come very near it. You
were all playing together by the big swing; (how plainly it swings in
your memory now!) Madge had the seat, and you were famous for running
under with a long push, which Madge liked better than anything
else;--well, you have half run over the ground when, crash! comes the
swing, and poor Madge with it! You fairly scream as you catch her up.
But she is not hurt,--only a cry of fright, and a little sprain of that
fairy ankle; and as she brushes away the tears and those flaxen curls,
and breaks into a merry laugh,--half at your woe-worn face, and half in
vexation at herself,--and leans her hand (such a hand!) upon your
shoulder, to limp away into the shade, you dream your first dream of
love.
But it is only a dream, not at all acknowledged by you; she is three or
four years your junior,--too young altogether. It is very absurd to talk
about it. There is nothing to be said of Madge, only--Madge! The name
does it.
It is rather a pretty name to write.
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