“It’s Mary,” she declared. “It must be they have let her off from work this afternoon. How anxious she must be to get home, the way she is coming.”
“She is crying,” said Mrs. Little. “Why, Mary, what has happened?” running forward to meet the girl, who was coming toward the house as fast as she could run, her hair flying in the air and a wild, hunted look on her face.
“They are after me!” she cried. “Don’t let them get me! Don’t let them get me! I never did it! I never did it!”
Mary then fell into the outstretched arms of her mother, where she lay without speaking, but sobbing as if her heart would break.
“What is it, Mary? what is it, my child?” begged the mother. “Tell me the worst, Mary; if it be ever so bad I’ll not believe it.”
Joe and the others were now beside them, and doing what they could to soothe the weeping girl.
“Let’s get her into the house,” said Joe.
“Hide me somewhere!” implored Mary. “Don’t let ’em get me. I never stole the things.”
“Who said you stole?” asked her mother.
“Mrs. Cornhill and the rest. They claim they have been missing things right along since I have been there, but I never took a thing. I do not care what they say.”