It was a very weary little girl whom Miss Barnes held by the hand as the two stopped at the door of the four-story house opposite the square.

"Shure! it's yersel'," cried Ellen, as she answered the bell. "Mrs.

Horner's called out a-suddint, me dear, an' phwat'll she say to yer shtayin' so long? Phwat's that ye have?"

"O, it's Moggins; won't you take him and give him some milk? And, O Ellen, I'm so hungry!"

"The pore dear," returned Ellen, taking the kitten tenderly.

"I'll find Uncle Justus," said Edna, as she ushered Miss Barnes into the sitting-room, and, having brought her uncle, she ran to get something to eat from Ellen, for the kind-hearted maid had saved the child's dinner for her.

Having satisfied her appet.i.te, and having heard the front door open and shut, Edna began to be seized with fear; and she stood tremblingly by the door as she heard Uncle Justus approach. But he only asked, "Have you had some dinner, little girl?" Then he laid his hand gently on her head and walked on. Next the front door again opened, and Edna heard Aunt Elizabeth's voice. Should she stay or go? Fear overcame her, and she took to her heels, never resting till she was up in her little room, where with beating heart she sat at the window overlooking the harbor.

Chapter IV

MAGGIE'S CASE.

For a long time Edna sat at the window expecting every moment to hear her aunt's heavy tread upon the stair. Finally, from sheer exhaustion, the little dusky head drooped on the sill, and when the last fading sunbeam stole into the room it found the little girl fast asleep.

She was aroused from her slumbers by Ellen. "Shure, dear, are ye moindin' it's near supper time?" she said.

Edna started up. "O, Ellen," she exclaimed, "I've been asleep."

"Yes, dear, an' so ye have; it's no wonder, with the tramp ye took.

Come, let me put on another frock. I'll take this wan an' clane it for ye, so the misthress will niver know a bit of harrum come to it."

"O Ellen! you're so good," said Edna gratefully, her arms going around Ellen's neck.

"Sorry a bit," protested Ellen, laughing as she fastened Edna's frock.

"Now ye are as nate as a new pin."

"Was Aunt Elizabeth very cross when she saw Moggins?" asked the little girl wistfully. "Will she turn him out?"

"Whist, dear, an' I'll tell ye; but ye mustn't let on a worrud, but take it as a matter of coorse. I was brushing up the harruth when yer aunt come into the settin'-room. 'Where's Edna?' says she. 'Up stairs,' says yer uncle. 'Did she get the ribbon all right?' says she.

'She did,' says he, 'an' she done more nor that,' an' he up an' told her all about yer doin's; an' yer aunt set thoughtfullike, a-rollin'

up her bonnet strings the whoile. Yer Uncle Justus, he stud up on the two fate of him, an' says he, 'Yer not to punish her, Elizabeth. She has moinded the worrud, "Inasmuch as ye did it to me,'" an' with that I picked up me dustpan an' wint out into the kitchen. Afther a bit yer aunt come out, an' she spies the skileton of a cat onto the harruth, an' says she, 'I'll not abide the cat in the house.' 'The cat is to stay,' says the uncle from the dhure where he stud. Yer aunt looked up kinder dazed-like at the firrum way of him, an', says she, 'Thin, Ellen, ye must kape the crathur in the kitchen. I don't begrutch it the bit of sc.r.a.pin's it'll take to feed it.' An' so, dear, ye just go down cheerfullike, an' say nothin'." And Edna, clasping Ellen's big, kind, coa.r.s.e hand, went down stairs.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Uncle Justus was sitting by the fire, which cast a ruddy glow through the isingla.s.s of the stove. The old gentleman was slowly polishing his gla.s.ses with his silk handkerchief, blinking his eyes and looking the very picture of sternness. Edna stole softly up, her little heart beating with a mixture of timidity and grat.i.tude. She gently, plucked her uncle's sleeve, then she said, "Thank you so much, Uncle Justus,"

and leaning forward she gave a little light kiss, which fell only upon the outer edge of one carefully curled gray side whisker; then, overcome by the boldness of her act, Edna fled to the window and hid herself in the heavy curtains. But Uncle Justus understood, for when his wife came into the room, he said, "Edna has come down, Elizabeth,"

and calling her to him, he actually put his arm around the shrinking child, as she faltered out her account of her day's doings, while she felt sure he meant to stand her friend, and bravely told about even the muddy frock. "I am sorry, auntie," she said. "I did mean to come right home."

"I forgive you, my child, because you have told the exact truth. I can trust you because you are truthful. Perhaps I expected too much of you, sending you so far alone," was the reply.

Edna could hardly believe her ears, to hear that from Aunt Elizabeth!

And so Moggins's place in the family was secure. He grew sleek and fat under Ellen's care, and was a great source of amus.e.m.e.nt to Edna; many a wild play they had together in the big yard.

Maggie's case, however, was not so easily settled. After leaving Uncle Justus, Miss Barnes hurried back to the Home.

"I don't know what we are going to do about this little child," she said to the matron. "We cannot keep her here against the rules of the inst.i.tution. I did not find Mrs. Horner at home, and so there is nothing to do but to take the child back to the people with whom she has been living, until we can make plans for her."

But Maggie, upon being told this, burst into a perfect frenzy of weeping. "O, don't take me back! Don't! Don't!" she cried. "She will beat me for running away. O, you don't know her."

"But she must not," said Miss Barnes. "She can be arrested for ill-treating you."

"You don't know her," repeated Maggie. "She will beat me like she did oncet before, when I went to the mission school, an' some ladies give me clothes. She took 'em away an' said I was settin' myself up to be a lady an' she'd learn me, she would, an' she beat me tur'ble," and Maggie hid her face at the recollection. "An' when the ladies came to see about me," she continued, "she told me ef I dast tell 'em, she'd do worse by me, an' she told the ladies I was a lyin' thievin'

critter, an' purtended I was ill tret, when she was a mother to me an'

never laid the flat of her hand agen me, 'ceptin' fur my good."

Maggie had been standing before Miss Barnes and the matron, her head buried in her arm, but when telling this tale she looked with tearful eyes straight at her hearers. She was a pitiful looking little object, indeed, even now, with her neglected locks smoothed, her face and hands washed, and an ap.r.o.n covering her ragged frock, for she was thin and hollow-eyed, with pallid cheeks and bony little hands, which worked convulsively as she told her story.

"What shall we do?" said Miss Barnes, her heart swelling with sympathy.

The matron looked thoughtful. "I can't take any responsibility in the matter, Miss Barnes," she replied, "much as I hate to turn the child out."

"She shall not go back," returned Miss Barnes, with emphasis. "Please get some sort of a hat for her, Mrs. Shaw, and I will go and see Mrs.

Ramsey. It is a case that needs instant attention."

Mrs. Ramsey was the wealthiest and most influential of the ladies directly interested in the Home, and was one of the warmest-hearted women in the world. She was, moreover, very firm and decided; once undertaking a matter she did not let it drop till she had accomplished what she set out to do, and therefore Miss Barnes was wise in selecting her as an adviser.

In all her short life Maggie had never seen such magnificence as that which met her astonished eyes as the footman in livery ushered Miss Barnes and her charge into the library where Mrs. Ramsey was sitting.

The child gazed at pictures and ornaments, soft draperies and luxurious couches, feeling as if this were the court of a queen. She had knocked about too much in the streets to be very shy, but she was bewildered by all that she saw, so she sat on the edge of a chair not speaking, nor even listening to what was said of her.

"I suppose the child's morals are far from good," Miss Barnes said; "but little Edna Conway, who is a dear child, seems to have taken a fancy to this poor little waif." And Miss Barnes told of Edna's trust in bringing Maggie to the Home, of Maggie's love for the little kitten, and all that she knew of the child from her own story.

"She must have some good in her," said Mrs. Ramsey, thoughtfully.

"Anyhow, Miss Barnes, she is a poor, neglected, friendless child, and such are the ones for whom the Home is intended." She sat musingly regarding Maggie. "Come here, little girl," she said, presently.

Maggie started, but obediently left her chair and stood before Mrs.

Ramsey, who looked at her searchingly. "How old are you?" she asked.

"I don't know, ma'am."

"How long have you lived with this woman whom you have just left?"

"I don't know ezackly. I lived with Mis' Ryan first. She told me she missed my mother. She was right good to me, she was, but she had to go to a place, an' she bound me out to Mis' Hawkins, to look after the young uns and do ch.o.r.es. Mis' Hawkins is a hummer."

"A what?"

"She's a reg'lar out an' outer; jus' tur'ble; drinks an' fights. She's been tuck up lots of times, so you can't skeer her that a-way."

"Do you know anything about your mother? Where does Mrs. Ryan live?"

"She lives to a place in the country. She tol' me my mother was better'n mos'; that she was a lady in the millingnery line, an' made grand bonnets and hats."