“Maggie.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m ‘most five goin’ on six an’ I’ll be twelve ter-morrer.”
Brandon smiled.
“And where do you live?” he continued.
A thin little claw of a finger pointed to an unpainted, shabby-looking cottage across the street. At that moment a shrill voice called: “Maggie, Maggie, what ye doin’? Come here, child.” And a tall, gaunt woman appeared in the doorway.
Maggie turned slowly; but scarcely had the little bare feet taken one step when the girl in the automobile stirred as if waking from sleep.
“Here—quick—little girl, take this,” she cried, tearing open the little jeweled purse at her belt, and thrusting all its contents into the small, grimy hands.
Maggie stared in wonder. Then her whole face lighted up.
“Lucky stars!” she cried gleefully, her eyes on the shining coins. “T’ank lucky stars!” And she turned and ran with all her small might toward the house.