Chapter 25

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 ejaculation.

“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.