“New white dress, is it?” said Mrs. Costello in bland surprise.  “Well, my, my, my!  You’ll have Dad and me in the poorhouse!”

She had been knitting a pink and white jacket for somebody’s baby, but now she put it into the silk bag on her knee, dropped it on the floor, and with one generous sweep of her big arms gathered Alanna into her lap instead.  Alanna was delighted to have at last attracted her mother’s whole attention, after some ten minutes of unregarded whispering in her ear.  She settled her thin little person with the conscious pleasure of a petted cat.

“What do you know about that, Dad?” said Mrs. Costello, absently, as she stiffened the big bow over Alanna’s temple into a more erect position.  “You and Tess could wear your Christmas procession dresses,” she suggested to the little girl.

Teresa, apparently absorbed until this instant in what the young Costellos never called anything but the “library book,” although that volume changed character and title week after week, now shut it abruptly, came around the reading-table to her mother’s side, and said in a voice full of pained reminder: 

“Mother!  Every one will have new white dresses and blue sashes for Superior’s feast!”

“I bet you Superior won’t!” said Jim, frivolously, from the picture-puzzle he and Dan were reconstructing.  Alanna laughed joyously, but Teresa looked shocked.

“Mother, ought he say that about Superior?” she asked.

“Jimmy, don’t you be pert about the Sisters,” said his mother, mildly.  And suddenly the Mayor’s paper was lowered, and he was looking keenly at his son over his glasses.

“What did you say, Jim?” said he.  Jim was instantly smitten scarlet and dumb, but Mrs. Costello hastily explained that it was but a bit of boy’s nonsense, and dismissed it by introducing the subject of the new white dresses.

“Well, well, well!  There’s nothing like having two girls in society!” said the Mayor, genially, winding one of Teresa’s curls about his fat finger.  “What’s this for, now?  Somebody graduating?”

“It’s Mother Superior’s Golden Jubilee,” explained Teresa, “and there will be a reunion of ’lumnae, and plays by the girls, you know, and duets by the big girls, and needlework by the Spanish girls.  And our room and Sister Claudia’s is giving a new chapel window, a dollar a girl, and Sister Ligouri’s room is giving the organ bench.”

“And our room is giving a spear,” said Alanna, uncertainly.

“A spear, darlin’?” wondered her mother.  “What would you give that to Superior for?” Jim and Dan looked up expectantly, the Mayor’s mouth twitched.  Alanna buried her face in her mother’s neck, where she whispered an explanation.

“Well, of course!” said Mrs. Costello, presently, to the company at large.  Her eye held a warning that her oldest sons did not miss.  “As she says, ’tis a ball all covered with islands and maps, Dad.  A globe, that’s the other name for it!”

“Ah, yes, a spear, to be sure!” assented the Mayor, mildly, and Alanna returned to view.

“But the best of the whole programme is the grandchildren’s part,” volunteered Teresa.  “You know, Mother, the girls whose mothers went to Notre Dame are called the ‘grandchildren.’  Alanna and I are, there are twenty-two of us in all.  And we are going to have a special march and a special song, and present Superior with a bouquet!”

“And maybe Teresa’s going to present it and say the salutation!” exulted Alanna.

“No, Marg’ret Hammond will,” Teresa corrected her quickly.  “Marg’ret’s three months older than me.  First they were going to have me, but Marg’ret’s the oldest.  And she does it awfully nicely, doesn’t she, Alanna?  Sister Celia says it’s really the most important thing of the day.  And we all stand round Marg’ret while she does it.  And the best of it all is, it’s a surprise for Superior!”

“Not a surprise like Christmas surprises,” amended Alanna, conscientiously.  “Superior sort of knows we are doing something, because she hears the girls practising, and she sees us going upstairs to rehearse.  But she will p’tend to be surprised.”

“And it’s new dresses all ’round, eh?” said her father.

“Oh, yes, we must!” said Teresa, anxiously.

“Well, I’ll see about it,” promised Mrs. Costello.

“Don’t you want to afford the expense, mother?” Alanna whispered in her ear.  Mrs. Costello was much touched.

“Don’t you worry about that, lovey!” said she.  The Mayor had presumably returned to his paper, but his absent eyes were fixed far beyond the printed sheet he still held tilted carefully to the light.

“Marg’ret Hammond — whose girl is that, then?” he asked presently.

“She’s a girl whose mother died,” supplied Alanna, cheerfully.  “She’s awfully smart.  Sister Helen teaches her piano for nothing, — she’s a great friend of mine.  She likes me, doesn’t she, Tess?”

“She’s three years older’n you are, Alanna,” said Teresa, briskly, “and she’s in our room!  I don’t see how you can say she’s a friend of yours!  Do you, mother?”

“Well,” said Alanna, getting red, “she is.  She gave me a rag when I cut me knee, and one day she lifted the cup down for me when Mary Deane stuck it up on a high nail, so that none of us could get drinks, and when Sister Rose said, ‘Who is talking?’ she said Alanna Costello wasn’t ‘cause she’s sitting here as quiet as a mouse!’”

“All that sounds very kind and friendly to me,” said Mrs. Costello, soothingly.

“I expect that’s Doctor Hammond’s girl?” said the Mayor.

“No, sir,” said Dan.  “These are the Hammonds who live over by the bridge.  There’s just two kids, Marg’ret and Joe, and their father.  Joe served the eight o’clock Mass with me one week, — you know, Jim, the week you were sick.”

“Sure,” said Jim.  “Hammond’s a nice feller.”

Their father scraped his chin with a fat hand.

“I know them,” he said ruminatively.  Mrs. Costello looked up.

“That’s not the Hammond you had trouble with at the shop, Frank?” she said.

“Well, I’m thinking maybe it is,” her husband admitted.  “He’s had a good deal of bad luck one way or another, since he lost his wife.”  He turned to Teresa.  “You be as nice as you can to little Marg’ret Hammond, Tess,” said he.

“I wonder who the wife was?” said Mrs. Costello.  “If this little girl is a ‘grandchild,’ I ought to know the mother.  Ask her, Tess.”

Teresa hesitated.

“I don’t play with her much, mother.  And she’s sort of shy,” she began.

“I’ll ask her,” said Alanna, boldly.  “I don’t care if she is going on twelve.  She goes up to the chapel every day, and I’ll stop her to-morrow, and ask her!  She’s always friendly to me.”

Mayor Costello had returned to his paper.  But a few hours later, when all the children except Gertrude were settled for the night, and Gertrude, in a state of milky beatitude, was looking straight into her mother’s face above her with blue eyes heavy with sleep, he enlightened his wife further concerning the Hammonds.

“He was with me at the shop,” said the Mayor, “and I never was sorrier to let any man go.  But it seemed like his wife’s death drove him quite wild.  First it was fighting with the other boys, and then drink, and then complaints here and there and everywhere, and Kelly wouldn’t stand for it.  I wish I’d kept him on a bit longer, myself, what with his having the two children and all.  He’s got a fine head on him, and a very good way with people in trouble.  Kelly himself was always sending him to arrange about flowers and carriages and all.  Poor lad!  And then came the night he was tipsy, and got locked in the warehouse — ”

“I know,” said Mrs. Costello, with a pitying shake of the head, as she gently adjusted the sleeping Gertrude.  “Has he had a job since, Frank?”

“He was with a piano house,” said her husband, uneasily, as he went slowly on with his preparations for the night.  “Two children, has he?  And a boy on the altar.  ’Tis hard that the children have to pay for it.”

“Alanna’ll find out who the wife was.  She never fails me,” said Mrs. Costello, turning from Gertrude’s crib with sudden decision in her voice.  “And I’ll do something, never fear!”

Alanna did not fail.  She came home the next day brimming with the importance of her fulfilled mission.

“Her mother’s name was Harmonica Moore!” announced Alanna, who could be depended upon for unfailing inaccuracy in the matter of names.  Teresa and the boys burst into joyous laughter, but the information was close enough for Mrs. Costello.

“Monica Moore!” she exclaimed.  “Well, for pity’s sake!  Of course I knew her, and a sweet, dear girl she was, too.  Stop laughing at Alanna, all of you, or I’ll send you upstairs until Dad gets after you.  Very quiet and shy she was, but the lovely singing voice!  There wasn’t a tune in the world she wouldn’t lilt to you if you asked her.  Well, the poor child, I wish I’d never lost sight of her.”  She pondered a moment.  “Is the boy still serving Mass at St. Mary’s, Dan?” she said then.

“Sure,” said Jim.  For Dan was absorbed in the task of restoring Alanna’s ruffled feelings by inserting a lighted match into his mouth.

“Well, that’s good,” pursued their mother.  “You bring him home to breakfast after Mass any day this week, Jim.  And, Tess, you must bring the little girl in after school.  Tell her I knew her dear mother.”  Mrs. Costello’s eyes, as she returned placidly to the task of labelling jars upon shining jars of marmalade, shone with their most radiant expression.

Marg’ret and Joe Hammond were constant visitors in the big Costello house after that.  Their father was away, looking for work, Mrs. Costello imagined and feared, and they were living with some vague “lady across the hall.”  So the Mayor’s wife had free rein, and she used it.  When Marg’ret got one of her shapeless, leaky shoes cut in the Costello barn, she was promptly presented with shining new ones, “the way I couldn’t let you get a cold and die on your father, Marg’ret, dear!” said Mrs. Costello.  The twins’ outgrown suits were found to fit Joe Hammond to perfection, “and a lucky thing I thought of it, Joe, before I sent them off to my sister’s children in Chicago!” observed the Mayor’s wife.  The Mayor himself heaped his little guests’ plates with the choicest of everything on the table, when the Hammonds stayed to dinner.  Marg’ret frequently came home between Teresa and Alanna to lunch, and when Joe breakfasted after Mass with Danny and Jim, Mrs. Costello packed his lunch with theirs, exulting in the chance.  The children became fast friends, and indeed it would have been hard to find better playfellows for the young Costellos, their mother often thought, than the clever, appreciative little Hammonds.

Meantime, the rehearsals for Mother Superior’s Golden Jubilee proceeded steadily, and Marg’ret, Teresa, and Alanna could talk of nothing else.  The delightful irregularity of lessons, the enchanting confusion of rehearsals, the costumes, programme, and decorations were food for endless chatter.  Alanna, because Marg’ret was so genuinely fond of her, lived in the seventh heaven of bliss, trotting about with the bigger girls, joining in their plans, and running their errands.  The “grandchildren” were to have a play, entitled “By Nero’s Command,” in which both Teresa and Marg’ret sustained prominent parts, and even Alanna was allotted one line to speak.  It became an ordinary thing, in the Costello house, to hear the little girl earnestly repeating this line to herself at quiet moments, “The lions, — oh, the lions!” Teresa and Marg’ret, in their turn, frequently rehearsed a heroic dialogue which began with the stately line, uttered by Marg’ret in the person of a Roman princess:  “My slave, why art thou always so happy at thy menial work?”

One day Mrs. Costello called the three girls to her sewing-room, where a brisk young woman was smoothing lengths of snowy lawn on the long table.

“These are your dresses, girls,” said the matron.  “Let Miss Curry get the len’ths and neck measures.  And look, here’s the embroidery I got.  Won’t that make up pretty?  The waists will be all insertion, pretty near.”

“Me, too?” said Marg’ret Hammond, catching a rapturous breath.

“You, too,” answered Mrs. Costello in her most matter-of-fact tone.  “You see, you three will be the very centre of the group, and it’ll look very nice, your all being dressed the same — why, Marg’ret, dear!” she broke off suddenly.  For Marg’ret, standing beside her chair, had dropped her head on Mrs. Costello’s shoulder and was crying.

“I worried so about my dress,” said she, shakily, wiping her eyes on the soft sleeve of Mrs. Costello’s shirt-waist; when a great deal of patting, and much smothering from the arms of Teresa and Alanna had almost restored her equilibrium, “and Joe worried too!  I couldn’t write and bother my father.  And only this morning I was thinking that I might have to write and tell Sister Rose that I couldn’t be in the exhibition, after all!”

“Well, there, now, you silly girl!  You see how much good worrying does,” said Mrs. Costello, but her own eyes were wet.

“The worst of it was,” said Marg’ret, red-cheeked, but brave, “that I didn’t want any one to think my father wouldn’t give it to me.  For you know” — the generous little explanation tugged at Mrs. Costello’s heart — “you know he would if he could!”

“Well, of course he would!” assented that lady, giving the loyal little daughter a kiss before the delightful business of fitting and measuring began.  The new dresses promised to be the prettiest of their kind, and harmony and happiness reigned in the sewing-room.

But it was only a day later that Teresa and Alanna returned from school with faces filled with expressions of utter woe.  Indignant, protesting, tearful, they burst forth the instant they reached their mother’s sympathetic presence with the bitter tale of the day’s happenings.  Marg’ret Hammond’s father had come home again, it appeared, and he was awfully, awfully cross with Marg’ret and Joe.  They weren’t to come to the Costellos’ any more, or he’d whip them.  And Marg’ret had been crying, and they had been crying, and Sister didn’t know what was the matter, and they couldn’t tell her, and the rehearsal was no fun!

While their feeling was still at its height, Dan and Jimmy came in, equally roused by their enforced estrangement from Joe Hammond.  Mrs. Costello was almost as much distressed as the children, and excited and mutinous argument held the Costello dinner-table that night.  The Mayor, his wife noticed, paid very close attention to the conversation, but he did not allude to it until they were alone.

“So Hammond’ll take no favors from me, Mollie?”

“I suppose that’s it, Frank.  Perhaps he’s been nursing a grudge all these weeks.  But it’s cruel hard on the children.  From his comin’ back this way, I don’t doubt he’s out of work, and where Marg’ret’ll get her white dress from now, I don’t know!”

“Well, if he don’t provide it, Tess’ll recite the salutation,” said the Mayor, with a great air of philosophy.  But a second later he added, “You couldn’t have it finished up, now, and send it to the child on the chance?”

His wife shook her head despondently, and for several days went about with a little worried look in her bright eyes, and a constant dread of the news that Marg’ret Hammond had dropped out of the exhibition.  Marg’ret was sad, the little girls said, and evidently missing them as they missed her, but up to the very night of the dress rehearsal she gave no sign of worry on the subject of a white dress.

Mrs. Costello had offered her immense parlors for the last rehearsal of the chief performers in the plays and tableaux, realizing that even the most obligingly blind of Mother Superiors could not appear to ignore the gathering of some fifty girls in their gala dresses in the convent hall, for this purpose.  Alanna and Teresa were gloriously excited over the prospect, and flitted about the empty rooms on the evening appointed, buzzing like eager bees.

Presently a few of the nuns arrived, escorting a score of little girls, and briskly ready for an evening of serious work.  Then some of the older girls, carrying their musical instruments, came in laughing.  Laughter and talk began to make the big house hum, the nuns ruling the confusion, gathering girls into groups, suppressing the hilarity that would break out over and over again, and anxious to clear a corner and begin the actual work.  A tall girl, leaning on the piano, scribbled a crude programme, murmuring to the alert-faced nun beside her as she wrote: 

“Yes, Sister, and then the mandolins and guitars; yes, Sister, and then Mary Cudahy’s recitation; yes, Sister.  Is that too near Loretta’s song?  All right, Sister, the French play can go in between, and then Loretta.  Yes, Sister.”

“Of course Marg’ret’ll come, Tess, — or has she come?” said Mrs. Costello, who was hastily clearing a table in the family sitting-room upstairs, because it was needed for the stage setting.  Teresa, who had just joined her mother, was breathless.

“Mother!  Something awful has happened!”

Mrs. Costello carefully transferred to the book-case the lamp she had just lifted, dusted her hands together, and turned eyes full of sympathetic interest upon her oldest daughter, — Teresa’s tragedies were very apt to be of the spirit, and had not the sensational urgency that alarms from the boys or Alanna commanded.

“What is it then, darlin’?” said she.

“Oh, it’s Marg’ret, mother!” Teresa clasped her hands in an ecstasy of apprehension.  “Oh, mother, can’t you make her take that white dress?”

Mrs. Costello sat down heavily, her kind eyes full of regret.

“What more can I do, Tess?” Then, with a grave headshake, “She’s told Sister Rose she has to drop out?”

“Oh, no, mother!” Teresa said distressfully.  “It’s worse than that!  She’s here, and she’s rehearsing, and what do you think she’s wearing for an exhibition dress?”

“Well, how would I know, Tess, with you doing nothing but bemoaning and bewildering me?” asked her mother, with a sort of resigned despair.  “Don’t go round and round it, dovey; what is it at all?”

“It’s a white dress,” said Teresa, desperately, “and of course it’s pretty, and at first I couldn’t think where I’d seen it before, and I don’t believe any of the other girls did.  But they will!  And I don’t know what Sister will say!  She’s wearing Joe Hammond’s surplice, yes, but she is, mother! — it’s as long as a dress, you know, and with a blue sash, and all!  It’s one of the lace ones, that Mrs. Deane gave all the altar-boys a year ago, don’t you remember?  Don’t you remember she made almost all of them too small?”

Mrs. Costello sat in stunned silence.

“I never heard the like!” said she, presently.  Teresa’s fears awakened anew.

“Oh, will Sister let her wear it, do you think, mother?”

“Well, I don’t know, Tess.”  Mrs. Costello was plainly at a loss.  “Whatever could have made her think of it, — the poor child!  I’m afraid it’ll make talk,” she added after a moment’s troubled silence, “and I don’t know what to do!  I wish,” finished she, half to herself, “that I could get hold of her father for about one minute.  I’d — ”

“What would you do?” demanded Teresa, eagerly, in utter faith.

“Well, I couldn’t do anything!” said her mother, with her wholesome laugh.  “Come, Tess,” she added briskly, “we’ll go down.  Don’t worry, dear; we’ll find some way out of it for Marg’ret.”

She entered the parlors with her usual genial smile a few minutes later, and the flow of conversation that never failed her.

“Mary, you’d ought always to wear that Greek-lookin’ dress,” said Mrs. Costello, en passant.  “Sister, if you don’t want me in any of the dances, I’ll take meself out of your way!  No, indeed, the Mayor won’t be annoyed by anything, girls, so go ahead with your duets, for he’s taken the boys off to the Orpheum an hour ago, the way they couldn’t be at their tricks upsettin’ everything!” And presently she laid her hand on Marg’ret Hammond’s shoulder.  “Are they workin’ you too hard, Marg’ret?”

Marg’ret’s answer was smiling and ready, but Mrs. Costello read more truthfully the color on the little face, and the distress in the bright eyes raised to hers, and sighed as she found a big chair and settled herself contentedly to watch and listen.

Marg’ret was wearing Joe’s surplice, there was no doubt of that.  But, Mrs. Costello wondered, how many of the nuns and girls had noticed it?  She looked shrewdly from one group to another, studying the different faces, and worried herself with the fancy that certain undertones and quick glances were commenting upon the dress.  It was a relief when Marg’ret slipped out of it, and, with the other girls, assumed the Greek costume she was to wear in the play.  The Mayor’s wife, automatically replacing the drawing string in a cream-colored toga lavishly trimmed with gold paper-braid, welcomed the little respite from her close watching.

“By Nero’s Command” was presently in full swing, and the room echoed to stately phrases and glorious sentiments, in the high-pitched clear voices of the small performers.  Several minutes of these made all the more startling a normal tone, Marg’ret Hammond’s everyday voice, saying sharply in a silence: 

“Well, then, why don’t you say it?”

There was an instant hush.  And then another voice, that of a girl named Beatrice Garvey, answered sullenly and loudly: 

“I will say it, if you want me to!”

The words were followed by a shocked silence.  Every one turned to see the two small girls in the centre of the improvised stage, the other performers drawing back instinctively.  Mrs. Costello caught her breath, and half rose from her chair.  She had heard, as all the girls knew, that Beatrice did not like Marg’ret, and resented the prominence that Marg’ret had been given in the play.  She guessed, with a quickening pulse, what Beatrice had said.

“What is the trouble, girls?” said Sister Rose’s clear voice severely.

Marg’ret, crimson-cheeked, breathing hard, faced the room defiantly.  She was a gallant and pathetic little figure in her blue draperies.  The other child was plainly frightened at the result of the quarrel.

“Beatrice ?” said the nun, unyieldingly.

“She said I was a thief!” said Marg’ret, chokingly, as Beatrice did not answer.

There was a general horrified gasp, the nun’s own voice when she spoke again was angry and quick.

“Beatrice, did you say that to Marg’ret?”

“I said — I said — ” Beatrice was frightened, but aggrieved too.  “I said I thought it was wrong to wear a surplice, that was made to wear on the altar, as an exhibition dress, and Marg’ret said, ‘Why?’ and I said because I thought it was — something I wouldn’t say, and Marg’ret said, did I mean stealing, and I said, well, yes, I did, and then Marg’ret said right out, ‘Well, if you think I’m a thief, why don’t you say so?’”

Nobody stirred.  The case had reached the open court, and no little girl present could have given a verdict to save her little soul.

“But — but — ” the nun was bewildered, “but whoever did wear a surplice for an exhibition dress?  I never heard of such a thing!” Something in the silence was suddenly significant.  She turned her gaze from the room, where it had been seeking intelligence from the other nuns and the older girls, and looked back at the stage.

Marg’ret Hammond had dropped her proud little head, and her eyes were hidden by the tangle of soft dark hair.  Had Sister Rose needed further evidence, the shocked faces all about would have supplied it.

“Marg’ret,” she said, “were you going to wear Joe’s surplice?”

Marg’ret did not answer.

“I’m sure, Sister, I didn’t mean — ” stammered Beatrice.  Her voice died out uncomfortably.

“Why were you going to do that, Marg’ret?” pursued the nun, quite at a loss.

Again Marg’ret did not answer.

But Alanna Costello, who had worked her way from a scandalized crowd of little girls to Marg’ret’s side, and who stood now with her small face one blaze of indignation, and her small person fairly vibrating with the violence of her breathing, spoke out suddenly.  Her brave little voice rang through the room.

“Well — well — ” stammered Alanna, eagerly, “that’s not a bad thing to do!  Me and Marg’ret were both going to do it, weren’t we, Marg’ret?  We didn’t think it would be bad to wear our own brothers’ surplices, did we, Marg’ret?  I was going to ask my mother if we couldn’t.  Joe’s is too little for him, and Leo’s would be just right for me, and they’re white and pretty — ” She hesitated a second, her loyal little hand clasping Marg’ret’s tight, her eyes ranging the room bravely.  She met her mother’s look, and gained fresh impetus from what she saw there.  “And mother wouldn’t have minded, would you, mother?” she finished triumphantly.

Every one wheeled to face Mrs. Costello, whose look, as she rose, was all indulgent.

“Well, Sister, I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” began her comfortable voice.  The tension over the room snapped at the sound of it like a cut string.  “After all,” she pursued, now joining the heart of the group, “a surplice is a thing you make in the house like any other dress, and you know how girls feel about the things their brothers wear, especially if they love them!  Why,” said Mrs. Costello, with a delightful smile that embraced the room, “there never were sisters more devoted than Marg’ret and my Alanna!  However” — and now a business-like tone crept in — “however, Sister, dear, if you or Mother Superior has the slightest objection in the world, why, that’s enough for us all, isn’t it, girls?  We’ll leave it to you, Sister.  You’re the one to judge.”  In the look the two women exchanged, they reached a perfect understanding.

“I think it’s very lovely,” said Sister Rose, calmly, “to think of a little girl so devoted to her brother as Margaret is.  I could ask Superior, of course, Mary,” she added to Mrs. Costello, “but I know she would feel that whatever you decide is quite right.  So that’s settled, isn’t it, girls?”

“Yes, Sister,” said a dozen relieved voices, the speakers glad to chorus assent whether the situation in the least concerned them or not.  Teresa and some of the other girls had gathered about Marg’ret, and a soothing pur of conversation surrounded them.  Mrs. Costello lingered for a few satisfied moments, and then returned to her chair.

“Come now, girls, hurry!” said Sister Rose.  “Take your places, and let this be a lesson to us not to judge too hastily and uncharitably.  Where were we?  Oh, yes, we’ll go back to where Grace comes in and says to Teresa, ‘Here, even in the Emperor’s very palace, dost dare....’  Come, Grace!”

“I knew, if we all prayed about it, your father’d let you!” exulted Teresa, the following afternoon, when Marg’ret Hammond was about to run down the wide steps of the Costello house, in the gathering dusk.  The Mayor came into the entrance hall, his coat pocket bulging with papers, and his silk hat on the back of his head, to find his wife and daughters bidding the guest good-by.  He was enthusiastically imformed of the happy change of event.

“Father,” said Teresa, before fairly freed from his arms and his kiss, “Marg’ret’s father said she could have her white dress, and Marg’ret came home with us after rehearsal, and we’ve been having such fun!”

“And Marg’ret’s father sent you a nice message, Frank,” said his wife, significantly.

“Well, that’s fine.  Your father and I had a good talk to-day, Marg’ret,” said the Mayor, cordially.  “I had to be down by the bridge, and I hunted him up.  He’ll tell you about it.  He’s going to lend me a hand at the shop, the way I won’t be so busy.  ’Tis an awful thing when a man loses his wife,” he added soberly a moment later, as they watched the little figure run down the darkening street.

“But now we’re all good friends again, aren’t we, mother?” said Alanna’s buoyant little voice.  Her mother tipped her face up and kissed her.

“You’re a good friend, — that I know, Alanna!” said she.