Margaret’s eyes cleared suddenly. She turned a radiant face on her mother.
“Oh, I know,” she cried in triumph. “There ain’t any poor folks here, and so you couldn’t do it!”
Mrs. Kendall looked puzzled.
“‘Poor folks’? ‘Couldn’t do it’?” she questioned.
“Yes; poor folks like Patty and the Whalens, and so you couldn’t ask ’em to live with you.”
Mrs. Kendall sat down abruptly. Near her was a garden settee. She felt particularly glad of its support just then.
“And of course you didn’t know about the Whalens and Patty,” went on Margaret, eagerly, “and so you couldn’t ask them, neither. But you do now, and they’d just love to come, I know!”
“Love to—to come?” stammered Mrs. Kendall, gazing blankly into the glowing young face before her.
“Of course they would!” nodded Margaret, dancing up and down and clapping her hands. “Wouldn’t you if you didn’t have nothin’ but a room right down under the sidewalk, and there was such a heap of folks in it? Why, here there’s everythin’—everythin’ for ’em, and oh, I’m so glad, ’cause they was good to me—so good! First Mis’ Whalen took in Patty and the twins when the rent man dumped ’em out on the sidewalk, and she gave ’em a whole corner of her kitchen. And then when I runned away from the bag-pasting, Patty and the twins took me in. And now I can pay ’em back for it all—I can pay ’em back. I’m so glad!”
Mrs. Kendall fell back limply against the garden seat. Twice she opened her lips—and closed them again. Her face flushed, then paled, and her hands grew cold in her lap.