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<h2>169CHAPTER XXIII</h2> Miss Kendall was sitting alone before the great fireplace in the hall at Hilcrest when Betty, the parlor maid, found her. Betty’s nose, always inclined to an upward tilt, was even more disdainful than usual this morning. In fact, Betty’s whole self from cap to dainty shoes radiated strong disapproval. “There’s a young person—a very impertinent young person at the side door, Miss, who insists upon seeing you,” she said severely. “Me? Seeing me? Who is it, Betty?” “I don’t know, Miss. She looks like a mill girl.” Even Betty’s voice seemed to shrink from the “mill” as if it feared contamination. “A mill girl? Then it must be Mrs. Merideth or Mr. Spencer that she wants to see.” “She said you, Miss. She said she wanted to see——” Betty stopped, looking a little frightened. “Yes, go on, Betty.” 170 “That—that she wanted to see Miss Maggie Kendall,” blurted out the horrified Betty. “‘Mag of the Alley.’” Miss Kendall sprang to her feet. “Bring the girl here, Betty,” she directed quickly. “I will see her at once.” Just what and whom she expected to see, Margaret could not have told. For the first surprised instant it seemed that some dimly remembered Patty or Clarabella or Arabella from the past must be waiting out there at the door; the next moment she knew that this was impossible, for time, even in the Alley, could not have stood still, and Patty and the twins must be women-grown now. Out at the side door the “impertinent young person” received Betty’s order to “come in” with an airy toss of her head, and a jeering “There, what’d I tell ye?” but once in the subdued luxury of soft rugs and silken hangings, and face to face with a beauteous vision in a trailing pale blue gown, she became at once only a very much frightened little girl about eleven years old. At a sign from Miss Kendall, Betty withdrew and left the two alone. 171 “What is your name, little girl?” asked Miss Kendall gently. The child swallowed and choked a little. “Nellie Magoon, ma’am, if you please, thank you,” she stammered. “Where do you live?” “Down on the Prospect Hill road.” “Who sent you to me?” “Mis’ Durgin.” Miss Kendall frowned and paused a moment. As yet there had not been a name that she recognized, nor could she find in the child’s face the slightest resemblance to any one she had ever seen before. “But I don’t understand,” she protested. “Who is this Mrs. Durgin? What did she tell you to say to me?” “She said, ‘Tell her Patty is in trouble an’ wants ter see Mag of the Alley,’” murmured the child, as if reciting a lesson. “‘Patty’? ‘Patty’? Not Patty Murphy!” cried Miss Kendall, starting forward and grasping the child’s arm. Nellie drew back, half frightened. “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I don’t know, ma’am,” she stammered. 172 “But how came she to send for me? Who told her I was here?” “The boss.” “The—boss!” “Yes. Mr. McGinnis, ye know. He said as how you was here.” “Bobby!” cried Miss Kendall, releasing the child’s arm and falling back a step. “Why, of course, it’s Patty—it must be Patty! I’ll go to her at once. Wait here while I dress.” And she hurried across the hall and up the broad stairway. Back by the door Nellie watched the disappearing blue draperies with wistful eyes that bore also a trace of resentment. “Go and dress” indeed! As if there could be anything more altogether to be desired than that beautiful trailing blue gown! She was even more dissatisfied ten minutes later when Miss Kendall came back in the trim brown suit and walking-hat—it would have been so much more delightful to usher into Mrs. Durgin’s presence that sumptuous robe of blue! She forgot her disappointment, however, a little later, in the excitement of rolling along at Miss Kendall’s side in the Hilcrest carriage, with the imposing-looking 173 coachman in the Spencer livery towering above her on the seat in front. It had been Miss Kendall’s first thought to order the runabout, but a sudden remembrance of her morning’s experience a few weeks before caused her to think that the stalwart John and the horses might be better; so John, somewhat to his consternation, it must be confessed, had been summoned to take his orders from Nellie as to roads and turns. He now sat, stern and dignified, in the driver’s seat, showing by the very lines of his stiffly-held body his entire disapproval of the whole affair. Nor were John and Betty the only ones at Hilcrest who were conscious of keen disapproval that morning. The mistress herself, from an upper window, watched with dismayed eyes the departure of the carriage. “I’ve found Patty, the little girl who was so good to me in New York,” Margaret had explained breathlessly, flying into the room three minutes before. “She’s in trouble and has sent for me. I’m taking John and the horses, so I’ll be all right. Don’t worry!” And with that she was gone, leaving behind her a woman too dazed to reply by so much as a word. 174 Hilcrest was not out of sight before Margaret turned to the child at her side. “You said she was in trouble—my friend, Patty. What is it?” she questioned. “It’s little Maggie. She’s sick.” “Maggie? Not the Maggie, the little brown-eyed girl in the pink calico dress, who fell down almost in front of our auto!” Nellie turned abruptly, her thin little face alight. “Gee! Was that you? Did you give her the money? Say, now, ain’t that queer!” “Then it is Maggie, and she’s Patty’s little girl,” cried Margaret. “And to think I was so near and didn’t know! But tell me about her. What is the matter?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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