“No. They lived with us at first, an’ worked some in the mill. Arabella couldn’t much; you know she was lame. After Sam got—worse, he didn’t like ter have ’em ‘round, an’ ‘course they found it out. One night he—struck Arabella, an’ ’course that settled things. Clarabella wouldn’t let her stay thar another minute, an’—an’ I wouldn’t neither. Jest think—an’ her lame, an’ we always treatin’ her so gentle! I give ’em what little money I had, an’ they left ‘fore mornin’. I couldn’t go. My little Maggie wa’n’t but three days old.”
“But you heard from them—you knew where they went?”
“Yes, once or twice. They started fur New York, an’ got thar all right. We was down in Jersey then, an’ ‘twa’n’t fur. They found the Whalens an’ went back ter them. After that I didn’t hear. You know the twins wa’n’t much fur writin’, an’—well, we left whar we was, anyhow. I’ve wrote twice, but thar hain’t nothin’ come of it.... But I hadn’t oughter run on so,” she broke off suddenly. “You was so good ter come. Mis’ Magoon said you—you wouldn’t want to.”
“Want to? Of course I wanted to!”
“I know; but it had been so long, an’ we hadn’t never heard from you since you got the Whalens their new—that is——” she stopped, a painful red dyeing her cheeks.
“Yes, I know,” said Margaret, gently. “You thought we had forgotten you, and no wonder. But you know now? Bobby told you that——” her voice broke, and she did not finish her sentence.
Patty nodded, her eyes averted. She could not speak.
“Those years—afterward, were never very clear to me,” went on Margaret, unsteadily. “It was all so terrible—so lonely. I know I begged to go back—to the Alley; and I talked of you and the others constantly. But they kept everything from me. They never spoke of those years in New York, and they surrounded me with all sorts of beautiful, interesting things, and did everything in the world to make me happy. In time they succeeded—in a way. But I think I never quite forgot. There was always something—somewhere—behind things; yet after a while it seemed like a dream, or like a life that some one else had lived.”
Margaret had almost forgotten Patty’s presence. Her eyes were on the broken-hinged gate out the window, and her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. It was a cry from little Maggie that roused her, and together with Patty she sprang toward the bed.
“My—lucky—stars!” murmured the child, a little later, in dim recollection as she gazed into the visitor’s face.