“And you are doing just right, dear.”
“But the results—they are so irregular and uneven,” sighed the mother, despairingly. “One minute she is the gentle, loving little girl I held in my arms five years ago; and the next she is—well, she isn’t Margaret at all.”
“No,” smiled the doctor. “She isn’t Margaret at all. She is Mag of the Alley, dependent on her wits and her fists for life itself. Don’t worry, sweetheart. It will all come right in time; it can’t help it!—but it will take the time.”
“She tries so hard—the little precious!—and she does love me.”
A curious smile curved the doctor’s lips.
“She does,” he said dryly.
“Why, Harry, what——” Mrs. Kendall’s eyes were questioning.
The doctor hesitated. Then very slowly he drew from his pocket a large, somewhat legal-looking document.
“I hardly know whether to share this with you or not,” he began; “still, it is too good to keep to myself, and it concerns you intimately; moreover, you may be able to assist me with some advice in the matter, or at least with some possible explanation.” And he held out the paper.
Mrs. Kendall turned in her chair so that the light from the open hall-door would fall upon the round, cramped handwriting.