“I don’t see what you are cryin’ for,” said Gladys, in an accusing voice.  “You might have been an old maid.”

“I don’t believe she is found,” Maria moaned, in a low voice.

“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 husband got home.  He runs a tug down the harbor, and he said take her to the police-station, and mebbe I’d find out somebody had been tryin’ to find her.  So my cousin’s husband and me went to the station, and he was so tuckered out and mad at the whole performance