"Thar was another one, too, an' she was jest like a angel out o' heaven. It was years ago--much as twelve or fourteen, when I lived in New York. She was the mother of the nicest an' prettiest little girl I ever see--the one I named my Maggie for. An' she asked us ter her home an' we stayed weeks, an' rode in her carriages, an' ate ter her table, an' lived right with her jest as she did. An' when we come back ter New York she come with us an' took us out of the cellar an' found a beautiful place fur us, all sun an' winders, an' she paid up the rent fur us 'way ahead whole months. An' thar was all the Whalens an' me an' the twins." "Well," prompted Mrs. Magoon, as the speaker paused. "What next? You ain't in New York, an' she ain't a-doin' it now, is she? Where is she?" Mrs. Durgin turned her head away. "I don't know," she said. The other sniffed. "I thought as much. It don't last--it never does." "But it would 'a' lasted with her," cut in Mrs. Durgin, sharply. "She wa'n't the kind what gives up. She's sick or dead, or somethin'--I know she is. But thar's others what has lasted. That Mont-Lawn I was tellin' ye of, whar I learned them songs we sings, an' whar I learned 'most ev'rythin' good thar is in me--_that's_ done by rich folks, an' that's lasted! They pays three dollars an' it lets some poor little boy or girl go thar an' stay ten whole days jest eatin' an' sleepin' an' playin'. An' if I was in New York now my Maggie herself'd be a-goin' one o' these days--you'd see! I tell ye, rich folks ain't bad--all of 'em, an' they do do things 'sides loll back in them autymobiles!" Mrs. Magoon stared, then she shrugged her shoulders. "Mebbe," she admitted grudgingly. "Say--er--Mis' Durgin, how much was that money Maggie got--eh?" CHAPTER XVIII Margaret Kendall did not sleep well the night after the picnic at Silver Lake. She was restless, and she tossed from side to side finding nowhere a position that brought ease of mind and body. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but her active brain painted the dark with a panorama of the day's happenings, and whether her eyes were open or closed, she was forced to see it. There were the lake, the mountain, and the dainty luncheon spread on the grass; and there were the faces of the merry friends who had accompanied her. There were the shifting scenes of the homeward ride, too, with the towers of Hilcrest showing dark and clear-cut against a blood-red sky. But everywhere, from the lake, the mountain, and even from Hilcrest itself, looked out strange wan faces with hollow cheeks and mournful eyes; and everywhere fluttered the ragged skirts of a child's pink calico dress. It was two o'clock when Margaret arose, thrust her feet into a pair of bed-slippers and her arms into the sleeves of a long, loose dressing-gown. There was no moon, but a starlit sky could be seen through the open windows, and Margaret easily found her way across the room to the door that led to the balcony.