“Why, Maria, where did you come from?” he asked.

“From New York,” replied Maria, meekly.

“Her and me went up to her ma-in-law’s cousin’s, on Forty-ninth Street, to find the kid,” Gladys cut in, glibly, “but the cousin had moved.”

Harry stared at them.  “Why, how happened you to do such a thing?” he asked.

“I couldn’t wait home and not do anything,” Maria sobbed, nervously.

“Her ma-in-law’s cousin had moved,” said Gladys.

“How did you find your way?”

“I had been there before,” sobbed Maria.  She felt for her father’s hand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and fear which he did not understand.

“Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter what happens,” he said, and held the poor little girl’s hand firmly.  “Thank God father’s got you both back safe and sound.”

Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner.

“Good-night, M’ria!” she sung out, and was gone, a slim, flying figure in the gloom.

“Are you afraid to go alone?” Harry called after her, in some uncertainty.

“Land, no!” came cheerily back.

“How happened she to be with you?” asked Harry.

“She was down at the station when I came home from Wardway,” replied Maria, faintly.  Her strength was almost gone.  She could hardly stagger up the steps of the house with her father, he bearing his recovered child, she bearing her secret.

Chapter XV

Ida was still to be seen rocking when Harry, with Evelyn and Maria, came in sight of the house.  The visiting ladies had gone.  Josephine, with her face swollen and tear-stained, was standing watching at a window in the dark dining-room.  When she saw the three approaching she screamed: 

“Oh, Mis’ Edgham, they’ve found her!  They’re comin’!  They’ve got her!” and rushed to open the door.

Ida rose, and came gracefully to meet them with a sinuous movement and a long sweep of her rose-colored draperies.  Her radiant smile lit up her face again.  She looked entirely herself when Harry greeted her.

“Well, Ida, our darling is found,” he said, in a broken voice.

Ida reached out her arms, from which hung graceful pendants of lace and ribbons, but the sleepy child clung to her father and whimpered crossly.

“She is all tired out, poor little darling!  Papa’s poor little darling!” said Harry, carrying her into the parlor.

“Josephine, tell Annie to heat some milk at once,” Ida said, sharply.

Annie, whose anxious face had been visible peeping through the dark entrance of the dining-room, hastened into the kitchen.

“Josephine, go right up-stairs and get Miss Evelyn’s bed ready,” ordered Ida.  Then she followed Harry into the parlor and began questioning him, standing over him, and now and then touching the yellow head of the child, who always shrank crossly at her touch.