By the Light of the Soul Part 27

Suddenly there was a rush and cry, and Maria had the little girl in her arms. She was kneeling beside her on the dusty platform, regardless of her new suit.

"Sister! Sister!" screamed the child.

"Sister's own little darling!" said Maria, then she began to sob wildly.

"It's her little sister. Where did you get her?" Gladys asked, severely, of the stout woman, who stood holding the large doll and glowering, while Harry Edgham came hurrying up. Then there was another scream from the baby, and she was in her father's arms. There were few at the station at that hour, but a small crowd gathered around. On the outskirts was Wollaston Lee, looking on with his sulky, desperate face.

The stout woman grasped Harry vehemently by the arm. "Look at here,"

said she. "I want to know, an' I ain't got no time to fool around, for I want to take the next train back. Is that your young one? Speak up quick."

Harry, hugging the child to his breast, looked at the stout woman.

"Yes," he replied, "she is mine, and I have been looking for her all day. Where--Did you?"

"No, I didn't," said the stout woman, emphatically. "_She_ did. I don't never meddle with other folks' children. I 'ain't never been married, and I 'ain't never wanted to be. And I 'ain't never cared nothin' about children; always thought they was more bother than they were worth. And when I changed cars here this mornin', on my way from Lawsons, where I've been to visit my married sister, this young one tagged me onto the train, and nothin' I could say made anybody believe she wa'n't mine. I told 'em I wa'n't married, but it didn't make no difference. I call it insultin'. There I was goin' up to Tarrytown to-day to see my aunt 'Liza. She's real feeble, and they sent for me, and there I was with this young one. I had a cousin in New York, and I took her to her house, and she didn't know any better what to do than I did. She was always dreadful helpless. We waited till her husband got home. He runs a tug down the harbor, and he said take her to the police-station, and mebbe I'd find out somebody had been tryin' to find her. So my cousin's husband and me went to the station, and he was so tuckered out and mad at the whole performance that I could hear him growlin' cuss words under his breath the whole way. We took her and this great doll down to the station, and we found out there who she was most likely, and who she belonged to. And my cousin's husband said I'd got to take her out here. He looked it up and found out I could git back to New York to-night. He said he wouldn't come nohow." Suddenly a light flashed on the woman. "Say,"

she said, "you don't mean to say you've been on the train yourself all the way out from New York?"

"Yes, I came out on the train," admitted Harry, meekly. "I am sorry--"

"Well, you'd better be," said the woman. "Here I've traipsed out here for nothin' this time of night. I call you all a set of numskulls. I don't call the young one very bright, either. Couldn't tell where she lived, nor what her father's name was. Jest said it was papa, and her name was peshious, or some such tomfoolery. I advise you to tag her if she is in the habit of runnin' away. Here I ought to have been up in Tarrytown, and I've been foolin' round in New York all day with your young one and this big doll." With that the stout woman thrust the doll at Maria. "Here, take this thing," said she. "I've had enough of it! There ain't any sense in lettin' a child of her size lug around a doll as big as that, anyhow. When does my train come?

Hev I got to cross to the other side? My cousin's husband said it would be about twenty minutes I'd have to wait."

"I'll take you round to the other side, and I cannot be grateful enough for your care," began Harry, but the woman stopped him again.

"I suppose you'll be willin' to pay my fare back to New York; that's all I want," said she. "I don't want no thanks. I 'ain't no use for children, but I ain't a heathen."

"I'll be glad to give you a great deal more than your fare to New York," Harry said, in a broken voice. Evelyn was already fast asleep on his shoulder. He led the way down the stairs towards the other track.

"I don't want nothin' else, except five cents for my car-fare. I can get a transfer, and it won't be more'n that," said the woman, following. "I've got enough to git along with, and I ain't a heathen."

Harry, with Evelyn asleep in his arms, and Maria and Gladys, waited with the stout woman until the train came. The station was closed, and the woman sat down on a bench outside and immediately fell asleep herself.

When the train came, Harry thrust a bank-note into the woman's hand, having roused her with considerable difficulty, and she stumbled on to the train over her skirts just as she had done in the morning.

Harry knew the conductor. "Look out for that woman," he called out to him. "She found my little girl that was lost."

The conductor nodded affably as the train rolled out.

Wollaston Lee had gone home when the others descended the stairs and crossed to the other track. When Harry, with Evelyn in his arms, her limp little legs dangling, and Maria and Gladys, were on their way home, the question, which he in his confusion had not thought to put before, came.

"Why, Maria, where did you come from?" he asked.

"From New York," replied Maria, meekly.

"Her and me went up to her ma-in-law's cousin's, on Forty-ninth Street, to find the kid," Gladys cut in, glibly, "but the cousin had moved."

Harry stared at them. "Why, how happened you to do such a thing?" he asked.

"I couldn't wait home and not do anything," Maria sobbed, nervously.

"Her ma-in-law's cousin had moved," said Gladys.

"How did you find your way?"

"I had been there before," sobbed Maria. She felt for her father's hand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and fear which he did not understand.

"Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter what happens,"

he said, and held the poor little girl's hand firmly. "Thank G.o.d father's got you both back safe and sound."

Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner.

"Good-night, M'ria!" she sung out, and was gone, a slim, flying figure in the gloom.

"Are you afraid to go alone?" Harry called after her, in some uncertainty.

"Land, no!" came cheerily back.

"How happened she to be with you?" asked Harry.

"She was down at the station when I came home from Wardway," replied Maria, faintly. Her strength was almost gone. She could hardly stagger up the steps of the house with her father, he bearing his recovered child, she bearing her secret.

Chapter XV

Ida was still to be seen rocking when Harry, with Evelyn and Maria, came in sight of the house. The visiting ladies had gone. Josephine, with her face swollen and tear-stained, was standing watching at a window in the dark dining-room. When she saw the three approaching she screamed:

"Oh, Mis' Edgham, they've found her! They're comin'! They've got her!" and rushed to open the door.

Ida rose, and came gracefully to meet them with a sinuous movement and a long sweep of her rose-colored draperies. Her radiant smile lit up her face again. She looked entirely herself when Harry greeted her.

"Well, Ida, our darling is found," he said, in a broken voice.

Ida reached out her arms, from which hung graceful pendants of lace and ribbons, but the sleepy child clung to her father and whimpered crossly.

"She is all tired out, poor little darling! Papa's poor little darling!" said Harry, carrying her into the parlor.

"Josephine, tell Annie to heat some milk at once," Ida said, sharply.

Annie, whose anxious face had been visible peeping through the dark entrance of the dining-room, hastened into the kitchen.

"Josephine, go right up-stairs and get Miss Evelyn's bed ready,"

ordered Ida. Then she followed Harry into the parlor and began questioning him, standing over him, and now and then touching the yellow head of the child, who always shrank crossly at her touch.

Harry told his story. "I had the whole police force of New York on the outlook, although I did not really think myself she was in the city, and there papa's precious darling was all the time right on the train with him and he never knew it. And here was poor little Maria,"

added Harry, looking at Maria, who had sunk into a corner of a divan--"here was poor little Maria, Ida, and she had gone hunting her little sister on her own account. She thought she might be at your cousin Alice's. If I had known that both my babies were wandering around New York I should have been crazy. When I got off the train, there was Maria and that little Mann girl. She was down at the station when she got home from Wardway, Maria says, and those two children went right off to New York."

"Did they?" said Ida, in a listless voice. She had resumed her seat in her rocking-chair.