Scarcely had Houghtonsville recovered from its first shock of glad surprise at Margaret's safe return, when it was shaken again to its very center by the news of Mrs. Kendall's engagement to Dr. Spencer.

The old Kendall estate had been for more than a generation the "show place" of the town. Even during the years immediately following the loss of little Margaret, when the great stone lions on each side of the steps had kept guard over closed doors and shuttered windows, even then the place was pointed out to strangers for its beauty, as well as for the tragedy that had so recently made it a living tomb to its mistress.

Sometimes, though not often, a glimpse might be caught of a slender, black-robed woman, and always there could be seen the one unshuttered window on the second floor. Every one knew the story of that window, and of the sunlit room beyond where lay the little woolly dog just as the baby hands had dropped it there years before; and every one knew that the black-robed woman, widow of Frank Kendall and mother of the lost little girl, was grieving her heart out in the great lonely house.

Not until the last two years of Margaret's absence had there come a change, and then it was so gradual that the townspeople scarcely noticed it. Little by little, however, the air of gloom left the house. One by one the blinds were thrown open to the sunlight, and more and more frequently Mrs. Kendall was seen walking in the garden, or even upon the street. Not until the news of the engagement had come, however, did Houghtonsville people realize the doctor's part in all this. Then they understood. It was he who had administered to her diseased body, and still more diseased mind; he who had roused her from her apathy of despair; and he who had taught her that the world was full of other griefs even as bitter as her own.

Not twenty-four hours after the news of the engagement became public property, old Nathan--town gossip, and driver-in-chief to a generation of physicians, Dr. Spencer included--observed triumphantly:

"And I ain't a mite surprised, neither. It's a good thing, too. They're jest suited ter each other. Ain't they been traipsin' all over town tergether, an' ridin' whar 'twas too fur ter foot it?... Ter be sure, they allers went ter some one's that was sick, an' allers took jellies an' things ter eat an' read, but I had eyes, an' I ain't a fool. She done good, though--heaps of it; an' 'tain't no wonder the doctor fell head over heels in love with her.... An' thar was the little gal, too.

Didn't he go twice ter New York a-huntin' fur her, an' wa'n't it through him that they finally got her? 'Course 'twas. 'Twas him that told Mis'

Kendall 'bout that 'ere Mont-Lawn whar they sends them poor little city kids ter get a breath o' fresh air; an' 'twas him that sent on the twenty-one dollars for her, so's she could name a bed fur little Margaret; an' 'twas him that at last went ter New York an' fetched her home. Gorry, 'twas allers him. Thar wa'n't no way out of it, I say. They jest had ter get engaged!"

It was not long before the most of Houghtonsville--in sentiment, if not in words--came to old Nathan's opinion: this prospective marriage was an ideal arrangement, after all, and not in the least surprising. There remained now only the pleasant task of making the wedding a joyful affair befitting the traditions of the town and of the honored name of Kendall.

In all Houghtonsville, perhaps, there was only one heart that did not beat in sympathy, and that one, strangely enough, belonged to Mrs.

Kendall's own daughter, Margaret.

"You mean you are goin' to marry him, and that he'll be your husband for--for keeps?" Margaret demanded with some agitation, when her mother told her of the engagement.

Mrs. Kendall smiled. The red mounted to her cheek.

"Yes, dear," she said.

"And he'll live here--with us?" Margaret's voice was growing in horror.

"Why, yes, dear," murmured Mrs. Kendall; then, quizzically: "Why, sweetheart, what's the matter? Don't you like Dr. Spencer? It was only last week that you were begging me to ask some one here to live with us."

Margaret frowned anxiously.

"But, mother, dear, that was poor folks," she explained, her eyes troubled. "Dr. Spencer ain't that kind, you know. You--you said he'd be a husband."

"Yes?"

"And--and husbands--mother!" broke off the little girl, her voice sharp with anguished love and terror. "He sha'n't come here to beat you and bang you 'round--he just sha'n't!"

"Beat me!" gasped Mrs. Kendall. "Margaret, what in the world are you thinking of to say such a thing as that?"

Margaret was almost crying now. The old hunted look had come back to her eyes, and her face looked suddenly pinched and old. She came close to her mother's side and caught the soft folds of her mother's dress in cold, shaking fingers.

"But they do do it--all of 'em," she warned frenziedly. "Tim Sullivan, an' Mr. Whalen, an' Patty's father--they was all husbands, every one of 'em; and there wasn't one of 'em but what beat their wives and banged 'em 'round. You don't know. You hain't seen 'em, maybe; but they do do it, mother--they do do it!"

For a moment Mrs. Kendall stared speechlessly into the young-old face before her; then she caught the little girl in her arms.

"You poor little dear!" she choked. "You poor forlorn little bunch of misguided pessimism! Come, let me tell you how really good and kind and gentle the doctor is. Beat me, indeed! Oh, Margaret, Margaret!"

CHAPTER IV

In spite of Mrs. Kendall's earnest efforts Margaret was not easily convinced that marriage might be desirable, and that all husbands were not patterned after Tim Sullivan and Mike Whalen. Nor was this coming marriage the only thing that troubled Margaret. Life at the Alley was still too vividly before her eyes to allow her to understand any scheme of living that did not recognize the supremacy of the sharpest tongue and the heaviest fist; and this period of adjustment to the new order of things was not without its trials for herself as well as for her mother.

The beauty, love, and watchful care that surrounded her filled her with ecstatic rapture; but the niceties of speech and manner daily demanded of her, terrified and dismayed her. Why "bully" and "bang-up" should be frowned upon when, after all, they but expressed her pleasure in something provided for her happiness, she could not understand; and why the handling of the absurdly large number of knives, forks, and spoons about her plate at dinner should be a matter of so great moment, she could not see. As for the big white square of folded cloth that her mother thought so necessary at every meal--its dainty purity filled Margaret with dismay lest she soil or wrinkle it; and for her part she would have much preferred to let it quite alone.

There were the callers, too--beautiful ladies in trailing gowns who insisted upon seeing her, though why, Margaret could not understand; for they invariably cried and said, "Poor little lamb!" when they did see her, in spite of her efforts to convince them that she was perfectly happy. And there were the children--they, too, were disconcerting. They came, sometimes alone, and sometimes with their parents, but always they stared and seemed afraid of her. There were others, to be sure, who were not afraid of her. But they never "called." They "slipped in" through the back gate at the foot of the garden, and they were really very nice.

They were Nat and Tom and Roxy Trotter, and they lived in a little house down by the river. They never wore shoes nor stockings, and their clothes were not at all like those of the other children. Margaret suspected that the Trotters were poor, and she took pains that her mother should see Nat and Tom and Roxy. Her mother, however, did not appear to know them, which did not seem so very strange to Margaret, after all; for of course her mother had not known there were any poor people so near, otherwise she would have shared her home with them long ago. At first, it was Margaret's plan to rectify this little mistake immediately; but the more she thought of it, the more thoroughly was she convinced that the first chance belonged by right to Patty's family and the Whalens in New York, inasmuch as they had been so good to her. She determined, therefore, to wait awhile before suggesting the removal of the Trotter family from their tiny, inconvenient house to the more s.p.a.cious and desirable Five Oaks.

Delightful as were the Trotters, however, even they did not quite come up to Bobby McGinnis for real comradeship. Bobby lived with his mother and grandmother in the little red farmhouse farther up the hill. It was he who had found Margaret crying in the streets on that first dreadful day long ago when she was lost in New York. For a week she had lived in his attic home, then she had become frightened at his father's drunken rage, one day, and had fled to the streets, never to return. All this Margaret knew, though she had but a faint recollection of it. It made a bond of sympathy between them, nevertheless, and caused them to become fast friends at once.

It was to Bobby that she went for advice when the standards of Houghtonsville and the Alley clashed; and it was to Bobby that she went for sympathy when grievous mismanagement of the knives and forks or of the folded square of cloth brought disaster to herself and tears to her mother's eyes. She earnestly desired to--as she expressed it to Bobby--"come up to the scratch and walk straight"; and it was to Bobby that she looked for aid and counsel.

"You see, you can tell just what 'tis ails me," she argued earnestly, as the two sat in their favorite perch in the apple tree. "You don't know Patty and the Whalens, 'course, but you do know folks just like 'em; and mother--don't you see?--she knows only the kind that lives here, and she--she don't understand. But you know both kinds, and you can tell where 'tis that I ain't like 'em here. And I want to be like 'em, Bobby, I do, truly. They're just bang-up--I mean, _beautiful_ folks," she corrected hastily. "And mother's so good to me! She's just----"

Margaret stopped suddenly. A new thought seemed to have come to her.

"Bobby," she cried with sharp abruptness, "did you ever know any husbands that was--good?"

"'Husbands'? 'Good'? What do ye mean?"

"Did you ever know any that was good, I mean that didn't beat their wives and bang 'em 'round? Did you, Bobby?"

Bobby laughed. He lifted his chin quizzically, and gazed down from the lofty superiority of his fourteen years.

"Sure, an' ain't ye beginnin' sort o' early ter worry about husbands?"

he teased. "But, mebbe you've already--er--picked him out! eh?"

Margaret did not seem to hear. She was looking straight through a little open s.p.a.ce in the boughs of the apple tree to the blue sky far beyond.

"Bobby," she began in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "if that man should be bad to my mother I think I'd--kill him."

Bobby roused himself. He suddenly remembered Joe Bagley and the kitten.

"What man?" he asked.

"Dr. Spencer."

"Dr. Spencer!" gasped Bobby. "Why, Dr. Spencer wouldn't hurt a fly. He's just bully!"

Margaret stirred restlessly. She turned a grave face on her companion.

"Bobby," she reproved gently, "I don't think I'd oughter hear them words if I ain't 'lowed to use 'em myself."

Bobby uptilted his chin.

"I've heard your ma say 'ain't' wa'n't proper," he observed virtuously.

"I shouldn't have mentioned it, only--well, seein' as how you're gettin'