Frank Spencer moistened his lips, which had grown unaccountably dry.
“But, my dear Margaret,” he remonstrated, “surely it isn’t necessary that you yourself should be subjected to such annoyance. I can attend to all that is necessary.”
“Oh, but I don’t mind a bit,” returned Margaret, brightly. “I want to do it. It’s for Patty, you know.” And Frank Spencer could only fall back in his chair with an uneasy glance at his sister.
Before the week was out there seemed to be a good many things that were “for Patty, you know.” There was the skilled physician summoned to prescribe for Maggie; and there was the strong, capable woman hired to care for her, and to give the worn-out mother a much needed rest. There were the large baskets of fruit and vegetables, and the boxes of beautiful flowers. In fact there seemed to be almost nothing throughout the whole week that was not “for Patty, you know.”
Even Margaret’s time—that, too, was given to Patty. The golf links and the tennis court were deserted. Neither Ned nor the beautiful October weather could tempt Margaret to a single game. The music room, too, was silent, and the piano was closed.
Down in the little house on the Prospect Hill road, however, a radiant young woman was superintending the work that was fast putting the cottage into a shape that was very much “livable.” Meanwhile this same radiant young woman was getting acquainted with her namesake.
“Lucky Stars,” as the child insisted upon calling her, and Maggie were firm friends. Good food and proper care were fast bringing the little girl back to health; and there was nothing she so loved to do as to “play” with the beautiful young lady who had never yet failed to bring toy or game or flower for her delight.
“And how old are you now?” Margaret would laughingly ask each day, just to hear the prompt response:
“I’m ‘most five goin’ on six an’ I’ll be twelve ter-morrow.”
Margaret always chuckled over this retort and never tired of hearing it, until one day Patty sharply interfered.