Chapter 9

Dr. Spencer met Mrs. Kendall and her daughter at the Houghtonsville station on the night they returned from New York. His lips were smiling, and his eyes were joyous as befitted a lover who is to behold for the first time in nine long days his dear one’s face. The eager words of welcome died on his lips, however, at sight of the weariness and misery in the two dear faces before him.

“Why, Amy, dearest,” he began anxiously: but her upraised hand silenced him.

“To-night—not now,” she murmured, with a quick glance at Margaret. Then aloud to her daughter she said: “See, dear, here’s Dr. Spencer, and he’s brought the ponies to carry us home. What a delightful drive we will have!”

“Oh, has he?” For an instant Margaret’s face glowed with animation; then the light died out as suddenly as it had come. “But, mother, I—I think I’d rather walk,” she said. “You know Patty and the rest can’t ride.”

The doctor frowned, and gave a sudden exclamation under his breath. Mrs. Kendall paled a little and turned to her daughter.

“Yes, I know,” she said gently. “But you are very tired, and mother thinks it best you should ride. After all, dearie, you know it won’t make Patty and the rest ride, even if you do walk. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I—I suppose so,” admitted Margaret; but she sighed as she climbed into the carriage, and all the way home her eyes were troubled.

Not until after Margaret had gone to bed that night did Mrs. Kendall answer the questions that had trembled all the evening on the doctor’s lips; then she told him the story of those nine days in New York, beginning with Margaret’s visit to the Alley, and her overwhelming “reception” in the Whalens’ basement home.

“I’m afraid the whole thing has been a mistake,” she said despondently, when she had finished. “Instead of making Margaret happy, it has made her miserable.”

“But I don’t see,” protested the doctor. “As near as I can make out you did just what she wanted; you—er—’divvied up.’”

Mrs. Kendall sighed.

“Why, of course, to a certain extent: but even Margaret, child though she is, saw the hopelessness of the task when once we set about it. There were so many, so pitifully many. Her few weeks of luxurious living here at home have opened her eyes to the difference between her life and theirs, and I thought the child would cry herself sick over it all.”