“Her and me went up to her ma-in-law's cousin's, on Forty-ninth Street, to find the kid,” Gladys cut in, glibly, “but the cousin had moved.”
Harry stared at them. “Why, how happened you to do such a thing?” he asked.
“I couldn't wait home and not do anything,” Maria sobbed, nervously.
“Her ma-in-law's cousin had moved,” said Gladys.
“How did you find your way?”
“I had been there before,” sobbed Maria. She felt for her father's hand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and fear which he did not understand.
“Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter what happens,” he said, and held the poor little girl's hand firmly. “Thank God father's got you both back safe and sound.”
Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner.
“Good-night, M'ria!” she sung out, and was gone, a slim, flying figure in the gloom.
“Are you afraid to go alone?” Harry called after her, in some uncertainty.