“You see, mother, you see how ’tis,” she cried hysterically, as soon as she could speak. “There’s such lots and lots of them, and they’re all so poor. Did you see how ragged and bad their clothes were, and how they grabbed for the cake? We’ve got to divvy up, mother, we’ve got to divvy up!”
“Yes, dear, I know; and we will,” soothed Mrs. Kendall, hurriedly. “We’ll begin right away to-morrow, darling. But now we’ll go back to the hotel and go to bed. My little girl is tired and needs rest.”
CHAPTER IX
Dr. Spencer met Mrs. Kendall and her daughter at the Houghtonsville station on the night they returned from New York. His lips were smiling, and his eyes were joyous as befitted a lover who is to behold for the first time in nine long days his dear one’s face. The eager words of welcome died on his lips, however, at sight of the weariness and misery in the two dear faces before him.
“Why, Amy, dearest,” he began anxiously: but her upraised hand silenced him.
“To-night—not now,” she murmured, with a quick glance at Margaret. Then aloud to her daughter she said: “See, dear, here’s Dr. Spencer, and he’s brought the ponies to carry us home. What a delightful drive we will have!”
“Oh, has he?” For an instant Margaret’s face glowed with animation; then the light died out as suddenly as it had come. “But, mother, I—I think I’d rather walk,” she said. “You know Patty and the rest can’t ride.”
The doctor frowned, and gave a sudden exclamation under his breath. Mrs. Kendall paled a little and turned to her daughter.
“Yes, I know,” she said gently. “But you are very tired, and mother thinks it best you should ride. After all, dearie, you know it won’t make Patty and the rest ride, even if you do walk. Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I—I suppose so,” admitted Margaret; but she sighed as she climbed into the carriage, and all the way home her eyes were troubled.