s, wiping
her eyes with a wet towel to disguise that other moisture which had
gathered in them. "An' now, be off with ye to the little Eyetalian with
the high-soundin' name. Sure, 'twas Nick, the parson, hisself, what seen
them fifty-five centses was in the right hands, an' not scattered by
that power o' young ones as was hangin' round when the lady give 'em."

"Did he take them? Oh, I'm so glad an' it's queer he should ha' forgot
to tell me last night. Never mind, though. I ain't goin' to peddle
to-day. I shan't peddle no more till I find grandpa. I couldn't. I
couldn't holler even, worth listenin'. An' who'd buy off a girl what
can't holler?"

"Hmm. I don' know. Hollerin's the life o' your trade, same's
rub-a-dub-dubbin' 's the life o' mine, er puttin' the freshest flower to
the front the bunch is o' Jane's. But, land, 'Queenie,' you best not
wait fer the cap'n. Best keep a doin', an' onct you're at it again, the
holler'll come all right. Like myself--jest let me stan' up afore this
here tub an' the wash begins to do itself, unbeknownst like. Don't you
idle. Keep peddlin' er patchin', though peddlin's the least lonesome,
an' the time'll fly like lightnin'. It's them 'at don't do nothin' 'at
don't know what to do. Ain't many them sort in the Lane, though, thank
the dear Lord. Hey? What?"

For Glory still lingered in the doorway and her face showed that she had
no intention of following the laundress's most sensible advice. So when
that loquacious woman paused so long that the little girl "could get a
word in edgewise," she firmly stated:

"No Meg, dear Meg, I shan't peddle a single goober till I've found my
grandpa. Every minute of every hour I'm awake I shall keep a-lookin'. He
hain't got nobody but me left an' I hain't got nobody but him. What
belongs, I mean. 'Course, they's all you dear Lane folks an' I love you,
every one. But me an' him--I--I must, _must_ find him. I'm goin' to
start right away now, an'--thank you, thank you an' dear Posy
Jane--an'--good-bye!"

This time it was Meg who caught the other in her arms and under pretense
of smoothing tumbled curls, hugged the child in motherly yearning over
her; then she gave her a very clean-smelling, sudsy kiss and pushed her
toward the door, crying rather huskily:

"Well, run away now, any gate. If to peddlin' 'twould be best; if to
s'archin' fer one old blind man in this big Ne' York what's full of 'em
as haymows o' needles, so be it, an' good luck to ye. B