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<h2>74CHAPTER IX</h2> Dr. Spencer met Mrs. Kendall and her daughter at the Houghtonsville station on the night they returned from New York. His lips were smiling, and his eyes were joyous as befitted a lover who is to behold for the first time in nine long days his dear one’s face. The eager words of welcome died on his lips, however, at sight of the weariness and misery in the two dear faces before him. “Why, Amy, dearest,” he began anxiously: but her upraised hand silenced him. “To-night—not now,” she murmured, with a quick glance at Margaret. Then aloud to her daughter she said: “See, dear, here’s Dr. Spencer, and he’s brought the ponies to carry us home. What a delightful drive we will have!” “Oh, has he?” For an instant Margaret’s face glowed with animation; then the light died out as suddenly as it had come. “But, mother, I—I think I’d rather walk,” she said. “You know Patty and the rest can’t ride.” 75 The doctor frowned, and gave a sudden exclamation under his breath. Mrs. Kendall paled a little and turned to her daughter. “Yes, I know,” she said gently. “But you are very tired, and mother thinks it best you should ride. After all, dearie, you know it won’t make Patty and the rest ride, even if you do walk. Don’t you see?” “Yes, I—I suppose so,” admitted Margaret; but she sighed as she climbed into the carriage, and all the way home her eyes were troubled. Not until after Margaret had gone to bed that night did Mrs. Kendall answer the questions that had trembled all the evening on the doctor’s lips; then she told him the story of those nine days in New York, beginning with Margaret’s visit to the Alley, and her overwhelming “reception” in the Whalens’ basement home. “I’m afraid the whole thing has been a mistake,” she said despondently, when she had finished. “Instead of making Margaret happy, it has made her miserable.” “But I don’t see,” protested the doctor. “As near as I can make out you did just what she wanted; you—er—‘divvied up.’” 76 Mrs. Kendall sighed. “Why, of course, to a certain extent: but even Margaret, child though she is, saw the hopelessness of the task when once we set about it. There were so many, so pitifully many. Her few weeks of luxurious living here at home have opened her eyes to the difference between her life and theirs, and I thought the child would cry herself sick over it all.” “But you helped them—some of them?” Again Mrs. Kendall sighed. “Yes, oh, yes, we helped them. I think if Margaret could have had her way we should have marched through the streets to the tune of ‘See the conquering hero comes,’ distributing new dresses and frosted cakes with unstinted hands; but I finally convinced her that such assistance was perhaps not the wisest way of going about what we wanted to do. At last I had to keep her away from the Alley altogether, it affected her so. I got her interested in looking up a new home for the Whalens, and so filled her mind with that.” “Oh, then the Whalens have a new home? Well, I’m sure Margaret must have liked that.” Mrs. Kendall smiled wearily. 77 “Margaret did,” she said; and at the emphasis the doctor raised his eyebrows. “But, surely the Whalens——” “Did not,” supplied Mrs. Kendall. “Did not!” cried the doctor. “Well, ’twas this way,” laughed Mrs. Kendall. “It was my idea to find a nice little place outside the city where perhaps Mr. Whalen could raise vegetables, and Mrs. Whalen do some sort of work that paid better than flower-making. Perhaps Margaret’s insistence upon ‘grass and trees’ influenced me. At any rate, I found the place, and in high feather told the Whalens of the good fortune in store for them. What was my surprise to be met with blank silence, save only one wild whoop of glee from the children. “‘An’ sure then, an’ it’s in the country; is it?’ Mrs. Whalen asked finally. “‘Yes,’ I said. ‘With a yard, some flower beds, and a big garden for vegetables.’ I was just warming to my subject once more when Mr. Whalen demanded, ‘Is it fur from the Alley?’ “Well, to make a long story short, they at last kindly consented to view the place; but, after one glance, they would have none of it.” 78 “But—why?” queried the doctor. “Various reasons. ’Twas lonesome; too far from the Alley; they didn’t care to raise vegetables, any way, and Mr. Whalen considered it quite too much work to ‘kape up a place like that.’ According to my private opinion, however, the man had an eye out for a saloon, and he didn’t see it; consequently—the result! “Well, we came back to town and the basement kitchen. Margaret was inconsolable when she heard the decision. The Whalen children, too, were disappointed; but Mr. Whalen and his wife were deaf to their entreaties. In the end I persuaded them to move to rooms that at least had the sun and air—though they were still in the Alley—and there I left them with a well-stocked larder and wardrobe, and with the rent paid six months in advance. I shall keep my eye on them, of course, for Margaret’s sake, and I hope to do something really worth while for the children. Patty and the twins are still with them at present.” “But wasn’t Margaret satisfied with that?” asked the doctor. “Yes, so far as it went: but there were still the 79 others. Harry, that child has the whole Alley on her heart. I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do. You heard her this afternoon—she didn’t want to ride home because Patty must walk in New York. She looks askance at the frosting on her cake, and questions her right to wear anything but rags. Harry, what can I do?” The man was silent. “I don’t know, dear,” he said slowly, at last. “We must think—and think hard. Hers is not a common case. There is no precedent to determine our course. Small girls of five that have been reared in luxury are not often thrust into the streets and sweat shops of a great city and there forced to spend four years of their life—thank God! That those four years should have had a tremendous influence is certain. She can’t be the same girl she would have been had she spent those years at her mother’s knee. One thing is sure, however, seems to me. In her present nervous condition, if there is such a thing as getting her mind off those four years of her life and everything connected with it, it should be done.” The doctor paused, and at that instant a step sounded on the graveled driveway. A moment 80 later a boy’s face flashed into the light that streamed through the open door. “Why, Bobby, is that you?” cried Mrs. Kendall. “Yes, ma’am, it’s me, please. Did Mag—I mean Margaret come home, please?” “Yes, she came to-night.” Bobby hesitated. He stood first on one foot, then on the other. At last, very slowly he dragged his right hand from behind his back. “I been makin’ it for her,” he said, presenting a small, but very elaborate basket composed of peach-stones. “Mebbe if she ain’t—er—are not awake, you’ll give it to her in the mornin’. Er—thank ye. Much obliged. Good-evenin’, ma’am.” And he turned and fled down the walk. For a time there was silence on the veranda. Mrs. Kendall was turning the basket over and over in her hands. Suddenly she raised her head. “You are right, Harry,” she sighed. “Her mind must be taken off those four years of her life, and off everything connected with it; everything and—everybody.” “Yes,” echoed the doctor; “everything and—everybody. Er—let me see his basket, please.” 81 Four days later Mrs. Kendall and her daughter Margaret left Houghtonsville for a month’s stay in the White Mountains. From the rear window of a certain law office in town a boy of fourteen disconsolately watched the long train that was rapidly bearing them out of sight. “An’ I hain’t seen her but once since I give her the basket,” he was muttering; “an’ then I couldn’t speak to her—her mother whisked her off so quick. Plague take that basket—wish’t I’d never see it! An’ I worked so hard over it, ’cause she said she liked ’em made out o’ peach-stones! She said she did.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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