"You--don't--know!"

"No. They lived with us at first, an' worked some in the mill. Arabella couldn't much; you know she was lame. After Sam got--worse, he didn't like ter have 'em 'round, an' 'course they found it out. One night he--struck Arabella, an' 'course that settled things. Clarabella wouldn't let her stay thar another minute, an'--an' I wouldn't neither. Jest think--an' her lame, an' we always treatin' her so gentle! I give 'em what little money I had, an' they left 'fore mornin'. I couldn't go. My little Maggie wa'n't but three days old."

"But you heard from them--you knew where they went?"

"Yes, once or twice. They started fur New York, an' got thar all right.

We was down in Jersey then, an' 'twa'n't fur. They found the Whalens an'

went back ter them. After that I didn't hear. You know the twins wa'n't much fur writin', an'--well, we left whar we was, anyhow. I've wrote twice, but thar hain't nothin' come of it.... But I hadn't oughter run on so," she broke off suddenly. "You was so good ter come. Mis' Magoon said you--you wouldn't want to."

"Want to? Of course I wanted to!"

"I know; but it had been so long, an' we hadn't never heard from you since you got the Whalens their new--that is----" she stopped, a painful red dyeing her cheeks.

"Yes, I know," said Margaret, gently. "You thought we had forgotten you, and no wonder. But you know now? Bobby told you that----" her voice broke, and she did not finish her sentence.

Patty nodded, her eyes averted. She could not speak.

"Those years--afterward, were never very clear to me," went on Margaret, unsteadily. "It was all so terrible--so lonely. I know I begged to go back--to the Alley; and I talked of you and the others constantly. But they kept everything from me. They never spoke of those years in New York, and they surrounded me with all sorts of beautiful, interesting things, and did everything in the world to make me happy. In time they succeeded--in a way. But I think I never quite forgot. There was always something--somewhere--behind things; yet after a while it seemed like a dream, or like a life that some one else had lived."

Margaret had almost forgotten Patty's presence. Her eyes were on the broken-hinged gate out the window, and her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. It was a cry from little Maggie that roused her, and together with Patty she sprang toward the bed.

"My--lucky--stars!" murmured the child, a little later, in dim recollection as she gazed into the visitor's face.

"You precious baby! And it shall be 'lucky stars'--you'll see!" cried Margaret.

CHAPTER XXV

It was, indeed, "lucky stars," as little Maggie soon found out. Others found it out, too; but to some of these it was not "lucky" stars.

At the dinner table on that first night after the visit to Patty's house, Margaret threw the family into no little consternation by abruptly asking:

"How do you go to work to get men and things to put houses into livable shape?... I don't suppose I did word it in a very businesslike manner,"

she added laughingly, in response to Frank Spencer's amazed e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"But what--perhaps I don't quite understand," he murmured.

"No, of course you don't," replied Margaret; "and no wonder. I'll explain. You see I've found another of my friends. It's the little girl, Patty, with whom I lived three years in New York. She's down in one of the mill cottages, and it leaks and is in bad shape generally. I want to fix it up."

There was a dazed silence; then Frank Spencer recovered his wits and his voice.

"By all means," he rejoined hastily. "It shall be attended to at once.

Just give me your directions and I will send the men around there right away."

"Thank you; then I'll meet them there and tell them just what I want done."

Frank Spencer moistened his lips, which had grown unaccountably dry.

"But, my dear Margaret," he remonstrated, "surely it isn't necessary that you yourself should be subjected to such annoyance. I can attend to all that is necessary."

"Oh, but I don't mind a bit," returned Margaret, brightly. "I _want_ to do it. It's for Patty, you know." And Frank Spencer could only fall back in his chair with an uneasy glance at his sister.

Before the week was out there seemed to be a good many things that were "for Patty, you know." There was the skilled physician summoned to prescribe for Maggie; and there was the strong, capable woman hired to care for her, and to give the worn-out mother a much needed rest. There were the large baskets of fruit and vegetables, and the boxes of beautiful flowers. In fact there seemed to be almost nothing throughout the whole week that was not "for Patty, you know."

Even Margaret's time--that, too, was given to Patty. The golf links and the tennis court were deserted. Neither Ned nor the beautiful October weather could tempt Margaret to a single game. The music room, too, was silent, and the piano was closed.

Down in the little house on the Prospect Hill road, however, a radiant young woman was superintending the work that was fast putting the cottage into a shape that was very much "livable." Meanwhile this same radiant young woman was getting acquainted with her namesake.

"Lucky Stars," as the child insisted upon calling her, and Maggie were firm friends. Good food and proper care were fast bringing the little girl back to health; and there was nothing she so loved to do as to "play" with the beautiful young lady who had never yet failed to bring toy or game or flower for her delight.

"And how old are you now?" Margaret would laughingly ask each day, just to hear the prompt response:

"I'm 'most five goin' on six an' I'll be twelve ter-morrow."

Margaret always chuckled over this retort and never tired of hearing it, until one day Patty sharply interfered.

"Don't--please don't! I can't bear it when you don't half know what it means."

"When I don't know what it means! Why, Patty!" exclaimed Margaret.

"Yes. It's Sam. He learned it to her."

"Well?" Margaret's eyes were still puzzled.

"He likes it. He _wants_ her ter be twelve, ye know," explained Patty with an effort. Then, as she saw her meaning was still not clear, she added miserably:

"She can work then--in the mills."

"In the mills--at twelve years old!"

"That's the age, ye know, when they can git their papers--that is, if it's summer--vacation time: an' they looks out that 'tis summer, most generally, when they does gits 'em. After that it don't count; they jest works, lots of 'em, summer or winter, school or no school."

"The age! Do you mean that they let mere children, twelve years old, work in those mills?"

For a moment Patty stared silently. Then she shook her head.

"I reckon mebbe ye don't know much about it," she said wearily. "They don't wait till they's twelve. They jest says they's twelve. Nellie Magoon's eleven, an' Bess is ten, an' Susie McDermot ain't but nine--but they's all twelve on the mill books. Sam's jest a-learnin' Maggie ter say she's twelve even now, an' the minute she's big enough ter work she will be twelve. It makes me jest sick; an' that's why I can't bear ter hear her say it."

Margaret shuddered. Her face lost a little of its radiant glow, and her hand trembled as she raised it to her head.

"You are right--I did not know," she said faintly. "There must be something that can be done. There _must_ be. I will see."

And she did see. That night she once more followed her guardian into the little den off the library.

"It's business again," she began, smiling faintly; "and it's the mills.