The gentleman seemed to be trying to remember. “Why, let me see; yes, I am pretty sure he has. I think I’ve heard him call his boy Harry. Yes, that’s it; Harry.”
Mabel glanced around, but only caught sight of Harold’s retreating figure. She ran quickly after him; and, taking hold of his hand, she held it tightly. “We’ll go home and tell mamma,” she whispered.
Harold bit his lip, and tried to keep back the tears, but hurried on.
They were not long in reaching home, and then Harold broke away from Mabel, and she saw him disappear into his room.
Her sympathetic little heart was too full for speech as she burst into Mrs. Ford’s room and buried her face in her mother’s lap.
“Why, my little girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Ford; “did the girls treat you badly, after all? I am so sorry; I hoped it would be all right, and that you would have no more trouble.”
“It isn’t the girls,” Mabel sobbed; “they were lovely; it’s Harold.”
“Why, dear me, how has he hurt your feelings; you have been getting along so beautifully together? What has he done?”
“He hasn’t done anything,” Mabel said, between her sobs; “it’s his father.”
“His father! Has he come back?”