"Yes, so far as it went: but there were still the others. Harry, that child has the whole Alley on her heart. I'm at my wits' end to know what to do. You heard her this afternoon--she didn't want to ride home because Patty must walk in New York. She looks askance at the frosting on her cake, and questions her right to wear anything but rags. Harry, what can I do?" The man was silent. "I don't know, dear," he said slowly, at last. "We must think--and think hard. Hers is not a common case. There is no precedent to determine our course. Small girls of five that have been reared in luxury are not often thrust into the streets and sweat shops of a great city and there forced to spend four years of their life--thank God! That those four years should have had a tremendous influence is certain. She can't be the same girl she would have been had she spent those years at her mother's knee. One thing is sure, however, seems to me. In her present nervous condition, if there is such a thing as getting her mind off those four years of her life and everything connected with it, it should be done." The doctor paused, and at that instant a step sounded on the graveled driveway. A moment later a boy's face flashed into the light that streamed through the open door. "Why, Bobby, is that you?" cried Mrs. Kendall. "Yes, ma'am, it's me, please. Did Mag--I mean Margaret come home, please?" "Yes, she came to-night." Bobby hesitated. He stood first on one foot, then on the other. At last, very slowly he dragged his right hand from behind his back. "I been makin' it for her," he said, presenting a small, but very elaborate basket composed of peach-stones. "Mebbe if she ain't--er--_are_ not awake, you'll give it to her in the mornin'. Er--thank ye. Much obliged. Good-evenin', ma'am." And he turned and fled down the walk. For a time there was silence on the veranda. Mrs. Kendall was turning the basket over and over in her hands. Suddenly she raised her head. "You are right, Harry," she sighed. "Her mind must be taken off those four years of her life, and off everything connected with it; everything and--everybody." "Yes," echoed the doctor; "everything and--everybody. Er--let me see his basket, please." Four days later Mrs. Kendall and her daughter Margaret left Houghtonsville for a month's stay in the White Mountains. From the rear window of a certain law office in town a boy of fourteen disconsolately watched the long train that was rapidly bearing them out of sight. "An' I hain't seen her but once since I give her the basket," he was muttering; "an' then I couldn't speak to her--her mother whisked her off so quick. Plague take that basket--wish't I'd never see it! An' I worked so hard over it, 'cause she said she liked 'em made out o' peach-stones! She said she did." CHAPTER X