Mrs. Kendall herself went to New York with the children, taking Margaret with her. In the Grand Central Station she shuddered a little as she passed a certain seat. Involuntarily she reached for her daughter’s hand.
“And was it here that I stayed and stayed that day long ago when you got hurt and didn’t come?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, dear—right here.”
“Seems ’most as if I remembered,” murmured the little girl, her eyes fixed on one of the great doors across the room. “I stayed and stayed, and you never came at all. And by and by I went out there to look for you, and I walked and walked and walked. And I was so tired and hungry!”
“Yes, yes, dear, I know,” faltered Mrs. Kendall, tightening her clasp on the small fingers. “But we won’t think of all that now, dear. It is past and gone. Come, we’re going to take Patty and the others home, you know, then to-morrow we are going to see if we can’t find a new home for them.”
“Divvy up!” cried Margaret, brightening. “We’re goin’ to divvy up!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh!” breathed Margaret, ecstatically. “I like to divvy up!” And the mother smiled content, for the last trace of gloomy brooding had fled from her daughter’s face, and left it glowing with the joy of a care-free child.
Not two hours later a certain alley in the great city was thrown into wild confusion. Out of every window leaned disheveled heads, and in every doorway stood a peering, questioning throng. Down by the Whalens’ basement door, the crowd was almost impassable; and every inch of space in the windows opposite was filled with gesticulating men, women, and children.
Mag of the Alley had come back. And, as if that were not excitement enough for once, with her had come Tom, Mary, Peter, Patty, and the twins, to say nothing of the beautiful lady with the golden hair, and the white wings on her hat.