"I imagine you are right, Miss Kent," she said. "And if I were you, I should take no pains to correct the impression. It will save you a great many annoying questions."
A maid appeared with news that the taxi had arrived. A nurse brought in the baby, hooded and cloaked for its journey. Outside on the steps waited the three older children, about to be placed in homes which had been duly inspected and approved by authorized representatives of the orphanage. As Agatha assembled her charges and led the way to the cab, little faces appeared at the windows, small hands waved farewells and a chorus of shrill voices called good-by. An irrepressible little orphan of a plainness which so far had defied the efforts of the society to place her in a desirable home, came running to the curb as Agatha was arranging her charges about her. "I don't want anybody to 'dopt you, Miss Kent," she quavered.
"Bless your heart!" Agatha leaned out and kissed her squarely. "No one's going to adopt me. I'll be back by Saturday."
As the cab rattled down the street, Agatha turned for a look at the square, uncompromising building where she had found a haven six months before. Despite the opulent tone of her letter to Warren, Agatha had fully realized that twelve thousand dollars does not constitute wealth. Howard's education was provided for, and that was an enormous relief, but her responsibility for Miss Finch still lay heavy on her heart and she was determined not to draw on her principal any more than was absolutely necessary. The opening at the Hamilton Orphanage had come to her through a series of fortunate accidents, and Agatha had flung herself into the work with an enthusiasm which had insured her immediate success. Agatha loved the orphanage and the orphans. The maternal instinct, always strong in her, exulted in the swarm of children on whom she could lavish herself. There was no urchin so refractory that Agatha could not find excuses for him, no little face so plain that she could not discern in it something of winsomeness. She saw the humor in the naughtiness of some unruly youngster where most of her associates perceived only irrefutable confirmation of the doctrine of original sin. Mrs. Van Horne, accustomed to aids who did their duty with automatic faithfulness, found Agatha too good to be true.
Miss Finch boarded in the vicinity of the orphanage and Agatha spent with her all the time she was not on duty. It had been hard to reconcile Miss Finch to being in the same city with Warren and not acquainting him with the fact. The sudden termination of her own double romance had intensified her passionate interest in Agatha's love-affairs. She thought of the subject continually. She dreamed of Agatha as a bride lovely in creamy silk and floating veil. She harped on the subject till Agatha's nerves suffered and sometimes she betrayed her irritation in speech.
Agatha was not thinking either of Warren or Forbes as she was bounced to the station, the baby in her arms and the three other children mixed in indistinguishably with the luggage. Children are an admirable antidote to unprofitable thinking, because of their capacity for demanding one's entire attention. There were two little girls between three and four years, who looked rather like twins, but were not even sisters, and there was a boy soon to be five. The baby was just getting old enough to be afraid of strangers and was fretful because of teething. It did not look as if Agatha would have many minutes for meditating on the hardships of her own lot.
At the station, with the aid of two sympathetic porters, Agatha got her charges aboard the Pullman and settled herself comfortably some minutes in advance of the other passengers. As they entered by ones and twos, she was aware of interested glances in her direction, in some cases the interest blended with apprehension. "Horrors!" she heard one woman say to her husband as she passed. Agatha looked after her darkly. She was instantly convinced that the speaker was the owner of a toy poodle.
A moment before the train pulled out, a man came into the Pullman and took his seat in the section opposite hers, glancing amiably at the promising little family across the aisle. Agatha shrank away from the look, feeling faint and sick. There was an ominous ringing in her ears. So strong was her sense of panic that if she had had another moment in which to act, she might have marshalled her brood off the train and trusted to finding some excuse that would satisfy Mrs. Van Horne. But before her impulse toward flight had time to crystallize, the last "All aboard" had been shouted. The train shuddered, groaned and moved out.
As the clear daylight replaced the semi-darkness of the terminal station, Agatha blushed furiously. She sat huddled in her corner, awaiting the outcome like a criminal who anticipates arrest. Gradually her unreasoning alarm was replaced by coherent thinking. If Forbes were still blind, she might travel as his fellow passenger to the Pacific coast without his being the wiser. But he had come on board unattended, moving freely and fearlessly. If his sight had been restored, she was still safe, for he had never seen her face.
After a time she brought her courage to the point of stealing a glance at him. A newspaper lay upon his knee, and though he was not reading at the moment, its presence confirmed the impression she had formed as he entered. He could see again. She found herself trembling for gladness and swallowing hard at an obstinate lump in her throat. The dark spectacles he had worn throughout his sojourn at Oak Knoll had been replaced by a pair of eye-glasses, which, to her prejudiced judgment, added to his air of distinction. Now that her first unreasonable terror had subsided, she found his proximity delightfully exhilarating.