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 scrapin’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, coarse hand, went down stairs.

Uncle Justus was sitting by the fire, which cast a ruddy glow through the isinglass of the stove. The old gentleman was slowly polishing his glasses 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 gratitude. 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 amusement 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 institution. 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 apron 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 chores. 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.”

“And your mother is not living?”

“No, ma’am. She got consumpted and died, Mis’ Ryan said.”

Mrs. Ramsey again sat thinking. “Miss Barnes,” she said, after a pause, “you were perfectly right; it would not do for you to take the responsibility of this. We must establish our legal claim to this child. I do not imagine it will be difficult. You may leave Maggie with me. It is too late to do anything this evening, but to-morrow I will settle the question.” And Maggie found herself the guest of it seemed to her the most elegant lady in the land.

“We shall see you again at the Home, Maggie,” said Miss Barnes, kindly, as she took her leave. “Be a good girl, and do not give Mrs. Ramsey any trouble. She is more than kind, and you see she trusts you.”

“O, Miss Barnes. I wouldn’t do nothin’ to trouble that beautiful lady for nothin’; no, not for nothin’,” promised Maggie.

After Miss Barnes had gone Mrs. Ramsey summoned a maid. “Take this little girl, and give her a good bath,” she said. “You can put a cot in your room for her. She is to sleep here to-night, and to-morrow she is to go out with me. We will have to manage some sort of an outfit for her. I think you will have to go out early, Rosa, and do some shopping for her. Are you hungry, Maggie?” she asked, turning to the child.

“No, ma’am. I was, but I had a big bowl of mush and milk, what Mis’ Shaw give me.”

“You had better give her something more, Rosa. Mush and milk is not a very lasting diet,” returned Mrs. Ramsey, smiling. “Now go with Rosa, Maggie,” and Mrs. Ramsey turned back to the magazine which she had been reading when Miss Barnes, with Maggie, came in.

Half fearful, half ecstatic, Maggie took her place by the side of Mrs. Ramsey in her fine carriage the next morning. Rosa had clothed her in an entirely new suit of clothes, and had really taken pride in seeing how nice she could make her little charge look. So it was quite a well-appearing little girl who was Mrs. Ramsey’s companion. The idea of riding in that beautiful carriage nearly took Maggie’s breath away; it seemed as if she must be dreaming; but as she neared the place where Mrs. Hawkins lived, her heart fluttered, and she looked up so appealingly at Mrs. Ramsey, that the eyes of the sweet woman filled. “No one shall hurt you, Maggie dear,” she said. And she held the child’s hand firmly, as they left the carriage.

“There she is!” cried Maggie, clinging closely to her friend, as a hard-featured woman turned toward them from the sidewalk.

Mrs. Hawkins was no respecter of persons, and Mrs. Ramsey’s appearance with Maggie was the signal for a fierce outbreak.

“There ye are, are ye. Callin’ yerself a lady, maybe, abductin’ children. I’ll have the law on ye, sure as me name’s Hawkins,” she cried.

“The child left you of her own accord,” said Mrs. Ramsey, with dignity.

“Then ye’ve brought her back, have ye?” and Mrs. Hawkins cast a threatening look at Maggie.

“No, I have not,” replied Mrs. Ramsey, quietly. “I simply brought her along to identify you.”

“Ye think yer honest, don’t ye?” shrieked Mrs. Hawkins. “I’ll have the child back. I’ve the law on me side.”

“We shall find out if the law permits anyone to retain a child and ill-treat her,” returned Mrs. Ramsey.

“Ill-treat, is it? Who says it? If it’s that little lyin’, whinin’

“Hush!” said Mrs. Ramsey, in a tone of command.

The woman was silenced for a moment, then she made a grab at Maggie, who clung to her protector.

At this moment up strode a policeman. “What’s all this?” he cried. “What’s the trouble? Pardon me, madam,” he said, addressing Mrs. Ramsey.

That lady explained.

The policeman looked perplexed. “I am not sure but the woman has some right, madam. I happen to know that the child belongs here, but you can probably settle it if she has been ill-treated. You had better leave the girl here, and consult the proper authorities.”

Mrs. Hawkins stood with her arms akimbo, looking on triumphantly.

“If she must stay, so must I,” said Mrs. Ramsey, firmly.

“Very well, madam. I will see that you are protected from the woman,” said the policeman.

Mrs. Ramsey thanked him, and calling her coachman, she bade him drive directly to her husband’s office. Then she took up her place in a little shop, still holding Maggie by the hand.