“Very well. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Mr. Bigelow turned into the grounds and disappeared among the trees, and Apples, bubbling with self-congratulations, hurried over to the trolley line.
Margaret was tired to-night. She was glad to be at home; and she threw herself on the library couch to rest for an hour while she awaited the final report of the day's labours. For George had been released from jail, thanks to the benevolence of the judge—himself a suburbanite—and to the clearness of the facts. It had called for very little effort on the part of Mr. Babcock, who had taken the case on his own shoulders, to make plain that George had been merely the cat's-paw of a gang of roughs. And now Mrs. Bigelow had promised Mr. Babcock that she would take in the boy and give him work about the house; so that apparently he was at last to have a start.
At length Mr. Babcock himself came in. He was almost jaunty this evening; and his voice was pitched higher than usual.
“How do you do, Miss Davies?” he exclaimed. “Here I am with my report.”
“You brought him out, did you?”
“Yes. Mrs. Bigelow has him and promises to take the best of care of him. He seems a likely boy—unfortunate he wasn't better brought up. But of course he may take a brace—such things have happened.”
“You know I have faith in George,” said Margaret warmly.