The exigencies of the press absorbed Mr. Standish so completely that for the next few days he had no time to think of Meg. He noticed that the corner on the top lobby was empty, and a vague feeling of regret crossed his mind.
On the third day he was disturbed by a great clatter in the kitchen and the noise of many voices, above which that of Meg rose shrill and angry. Jessie, the hard-worked slavey of the establishment, admitted when she came up with the coal-scuttle, in answer to Mr. Standish's inquiries concerning the cause of the trouble, that it was Meg's fault. She was not like the same child. She was like beside herself—she was—these last three days.
Mr. Standish was perplexed, and resolved, after completing the weekly budget he was writing for the Melbourne Banner, to seek out the child, and get the clew to this sudden demoralization.
He was confirmed in this resolution when, in returning from the post, he came upon Meg in fierce encounter with some boys. She was fighting valiantly, but numbers proved too much. Mr. Standish stepped up to the rescue. He caught one boy by the ear, rolled another in the dust, and generally dispersed the assailants on all sides. Meg waited, watching, on the outskirts of the fray; but as soon as Mr. Standish had disposed of her enemies she turned and fled, disheveled, homeward. The account her rescuer received left little doubt on his mind that Meg had been the aggressive party.
Mr. Standish sought Mrs. Browne. The landlady was lachrymose and muddled. To his inquiries concerning the queer notion Meg had concerning her mother, she gave a rambling account of a mysterious lady who had come to the lodgings accompanied by an older lady. Meg had been born here, and the mother had died in giving her birth. No father had ever come to visit the mother or child.
Mrs. Browne admitted that some money was sent regular through a lawyer—just enough to pay for Meg's clothing and schooling; but who the lawyer was, Mrs. Browne refused to tell.
Mr. Standish left Mrs. Browne drying her eyes, and went up, meditating how to address Meg. There had come to him an indistinct realization of what the thought of a lady-mother had been to the child in her sordid surroundings. After a few moments' deliberation he took out pen, ink, and paper, and wrote in Roman characters:
"Dear Meg: I write to ask you to forgive me. You were right, and I was wrong. Your mother was a lady, just as you thought she was. I have heard all about her. Won't you forgive me, and come and see me? I feel lonely without my little friend.
"W. S."
Having folded the letter, he slipped it under the child's door; then he returned to his room and waited, leaving his own door ajar. After awhile he began to sing some of Meg's favorite melodies—"Sally in the Alley" and "Margery Allen." He thought he heard a furtive step. He turned his head away, so as not to frighten by so much as a glance the shy advance, and began softly to sing Meg's favorite ballad: