"Oh, the kid! You bet your life she'll turn up. Your pa 'll find her
all right. I didn't know as you were cryin' about that."

When they reached Edgham, Maria and Gladys got off the train,
Wollaston Lee also got off, and Harry Edgham, and from a rear car a
stout woman, yanking, rather than leading, by the hand, a little girl
with a fluff of yellow hair. The child was staggering with sleep. The
stout woman carried on her other arm a large wax-doll whose face
smiled inanely over her shoulder.

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