“Do I remember ‘Maggie’? ‘Mag of the Alley’?” quavered the old woman excitedly in response to Margaret’s questions. “Sure, an’ of course I do! She was the tirror of the hull place till she was that turned about that she got ter be a blissed angel straight from Hiven. As if I could iver forgit th’ swate face of Mag of the Alley!”
“Oh, but you have,” laughed Margaret, “for I myself am she.”
“Go ‘way wid ye, an’ ye ain’t that now!” cried the old woman, peering over and through her glasses, and finally snatching them off altogether.
“But I am. And this is Mrs. Durgin, who used to be Patty Murphy. Don’t you remember Patty Murphy?”
Mrs. Whalen fell back in her chair.
“Saints of Hiven, an’ is it the both of yez, all growed up ter be sich foine young ladies as ye be? Who’d ‘a’ thought it!”
“It is, and we’ve come to you for help,” rejoined Margaret. “Do you remember Patty Murphy’s sisters, the twins? We are trying to find them, and we thought perhaps you could tell us where they are.”
Mrs. Whalen shook her head.
“I knows ’em, but I don’t know whar they be now.”
“But you did know,” interposed Patty. “You must ‘a’ known four—five years ago, for my little Maggie was jest born when the twins come ter New York an’ found ye. They wrote how they was livin’ with ye.”