By the Light of the Soul Part 21

"I saw a little girl jest about her size, a-carryin' of a doll, that clim on the New York train jest as we went out this mornin'," replied Edwin with a gasp, as if the information were wrung from him by torture. "And she was with a awful fat woman. Leastways--"

"A fat woman!" cried Wollaston Lee. "Who was the fat woman?"

"I hadn't never saw her afore. She was awful fat, and was a steppin'

on her dress."

Wollaston was keen-witted, and he immediately grasped at the truth of the matter.

"You idiot!" he said. "What makes you think she was with the stout woman--just because she was climbing into the train after her?"

"Little girls don't never go to New York alone with dolls,"

vouchsafed Edwin, more idiotically than ever. "Leastways--"

"If you don't stop saying leastways, I'll punch your head," said Wollaston. "Are you sure the child was Maria's little sister?"

"Looked like her," said Edwin, shrinking back a little. "Leastways--"

"What was she dressed in?" asked Maria, eagerly.

"I didn't see as she had nothin' on."

"You great gump!" said Gladys, shaking him energetically. "Of course she had something on."

"She had a big doll."

"What did she have on? You answer me this minute!" said Gladys.

"She might have had on a blue dress," admitted Edwin, with a frantic grasp at his memory, "but she didn't have nothin' on her, nohow.

Leastways--"

"Oh!" sobbed Maria, "she did wear her little blue dress this morning.

She did! Was her hair light?"

"Yes, it were," said Edwin, quite positively. "Leastways--"

"It was Evelyn," sobbed Maria. "Oh, poor little Evelyn, all alone in New York! She never went but once with Her and me, and she wouldn't know where to go. Oh, oh!"

"Where did she go when she went with your step-ma and you?" demanded Gladys, who seemed to have suddenly developed unusual ac.u.men. Her face was streaming with tears but her voice was keen.

"She went to Her cousin's, who lives in an apartment in West Forty-ninth Street," said Maria.

"She'd try to go there again," said Gladys. "Did she know the woman's name?"

"Yes, she did."

"You bet she did. She was an awful bright kid," said Gladys. "Now, I tell you what, Maria, I shouldn't a mite wonder if your step-ma had had a telegram from her cousin by this time, that she was to her house. You'd better jest run home an' see."

"She was only her third cousin," said Maria, "and She hardly ever heard from her. It was only the other day I heard Her say that she didn't know but she had left New York. I don't think Her cousin liked her very well."

"What was the cousin's name?"

"She called her Alice, but her name was Mrs. George B. Edison."

"That's jest where the kid has went," said Gladys. "You go right home, M'ria. We'll go with you, and I'll bet a cooky you'll find that your step-ma has had a telegram."

Maria hesitated a moment; then she started, Wollaston Lee still keeping close hold of her arm. Gladys was on the other side.

Chapter XIV

When Maria reached home, she pushed open the front door, which was unlocked, and rushed violently in. Wollaston and Gladys followed her, after a slight hesitation, but remained standing in the vestibule.

When Maria had come in sight of the house, she had perceived the regular motion of a rocking female head past the parlor light, and she knew that it was Ida. Ida nearly always occupied a rocking-chair, and was fond of the gentle, swaying motion.

"There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn't lost," Maria thought, with the bitterest revulsion and sarcasm. When she opened the door she immediately smelled tea, the odor of broiling beefsteak and fried potatoes. "Eating just as if the baby wasn't lost," she thought. She rushed into the parlor, and there was Ida swaying back and forth in her rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her.

One was Mrs. Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs.

Adams, perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; one was the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs.

Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate--her husband had a degree. Her sister had just died and she was dressed in the deepest mourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she produced a curious effect of a vacuum of grief. Mrs. Adams, who was quite young and very pretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly; Mrs. Jonas White was sniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was ponderously religious, asked once in a while, in a subdued manner, if Mrs. Edgham did not think it would be advisable to unite in prayer.

Ida made no reply. She continued to rock, and she had a curious set expression. Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to restrain that radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with her. She looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a Tiffany vase which stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold against a skilful background of crimson velvet. It was as if she were having her photograph taken and had been requested by the photographer to keep her eyes fixed upon that vase.

"The detective system of New York is so lax," said Mrs. Adams. "I do wish there was more system among them and among the police. One would feel--" She heaved a deep sigh.

Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly.

"Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good plan to offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear child's return?" asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice, albeit somewhat diffidently. She was a corpulent woman, and was richly dressed, in spite of her deep mourning. A jet brooch rimmed with pearls, gleamed out of the shadow where she sat.

Ida continued to rock.

"But," said Mrs. Adams, "a great many children are lost every year and found. Sometimes the system does really work in a manner to astonish any one. I should not be surprised at any minute to see Mr.

Edgham or a policeman walking in with her. But--well--there is so much to be done. The other night, when Mr. Adams and I went in to hear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight blocks after the performance without seeing one policeman."

"I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a dozen would have sprung out from somewhere," said Mrs. White, in a tearful voice.

Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself a.s.sailed without a word in his defence, such was the maternal pity of her heart.

"That was what Mr. Adams said," retorted Mrs. Adams, with some asperity, "and I told him that I would rather the dozen policemen were in evidence before I was shot and robbed than after. I had on all my rings, and my diamond sunburst."

"Do you not think, dear friend, that it would be a good plan to offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the safe restoration of the dear child?" asked Mrs. Applegate again. Her voice was sonorous, very much like her husband's. She felt that, so far as in her lay, she was taking his place. He was out of town.

It was then that Maria rushed into the room. She ran straight up to her step-mother. The other women started. Ida continued to rock, and look at the Tiffany vase. It seemed as if she dared not take her eyes from it for fear of losing her expression. Then Maria spoke, and her voice did not sound like her own at all. It was accusatory, menacing.

"Where is my little sister?" she cried. "Where is she?"

Mrs. Jonas White rose, approached Maria, and put her arms around her caressingly. "You poor, dear child," she sobbed, "I guess you do feel it. You did set a heap by that blessed little thing, didn't you?"

"She is in the hands of the Lord," said Mrs. Applegate.