“I’ve found Patty, the little girl who was so good to me in New York,” Margaret had explained breathlessly, flying into the room three minutes before. “She’s in trouble and has sent for me. I’m taking John and the horses, so I’ll be all right. Don’t worry!” And with that she was gone, leaving behind her a woman too dazed to reply by so much as a word.
Hilcrest was not out of sight before Margaret turned to the child at her side.
“You said she was in trouble—my friend, Patty. What is it?” she questioned.
“It’s little Maggie. She’s sick.”
“Maggie? Not the Maggie, the little brown-eyed girl in the pink calico dress, who fell down almost in front of our auto!”
Nellie turned abruptly, her thin little face alight.
“Gee! Was that you? Did you give her the money? Say, now, ain’t that queer!”
“Then it is Maggie, and she’s Patty’s little girl,” cried Margaret. “And to think I was so near and didn’t know! But tell me about her. What is the matter?”
CHAPTER XXIV
Down in the shabby little cottage on the Hill road Mrs. Durgin walked the floor, vibrating between the window and the low bed in the corner. By the stove sat Mrs. Magoon, mending a pair of trousers—and talking. To those who knew Mrs. Magoon, it was never necessary to add that last—if Mrs. Magoon was there, so also was the talking.