Harry told his story.  “I had the whole police force of New York on the outlook, although I did not really think myself she was in the city, and there papa’s precious darling was all the time right on the train with him and he never knew it.  And here was poor little Maria,” added Harry, looking at Maria, who had sunk into a corner of a divan—­“here was poor little Maria, Ida, and she had gone hunting her little sister on her own account.  She thought she might be at your cousin Alice’s.  If I had known that both my babies were wandering around New York I should have been crazy.  When I got off the train, there was Maria and that little Mann girl.  She was down at the station when she got home from Wardway, Maria says, and those two children went right off to New York.”

“Did they?” said Ida, in a listless voice.  She had resumed her seat in her rocking-chair.

“Edwin Shaw said he thought he saw Evelyn getting on the New York train this morning,” said Maria, faintly.

“She is all used up,” Harry said.  “You had better drink some hot milk yourself, Maria.  Only think of that child and that Mann girl going off to New York on their own accounts, Ida!”

“Yes,” said Ida.

“Wollaston Lee went, too,” Maria said, suddenly.  A quick impulse for concealment in that best of hiding-places, utter frankness and openness, came over her.  “He got off the train here.  You know he began school, too, at Wardway this morning, and he and Gladys both went.”

“Well, I’m thankful you had him along,” said Harry.  “The Lord only knows what you two girls would have done alone in a city like New York.  You must never do such a thing again, whatever happens, Maria.  You might as well run right into a den of wild beasts.  Only think of that child going to New York, and coming out on the last train, with that Mann girl; and Wollaston is only a boy, though he’s bright and smart.  And your cousin has moved, Ida.”

“I thought she had,” said Ida.

“And to think of what those children might have got into,” said Harry, “in a city like New York, which is broken out all over with plague spots instead of having them in one place!  Only think of it, Ida!”

Harry’s voice was almost sobbing.  It seemed as if he fairly appealed to his wife for sympathy, with his consciousness of the dangers through which his child had passed.  But Ida only said, “Yes.”

“And the baby might have fallen into the worst hands,” said Harry.  “But, thank God, a good woman, although she was coarse enough, got hold of her.”

“Yes, we can’t be thankful enough,” Ida said, smoothly, and then Josephine came in with a tray and a silver cup of hot milk for Evelyn.

“Is that all the milk Annie heated?” asked Harry.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, tell Annie to go to the sideboard and get that bottle of port-wine and pour out a glass for Miss Maria; and, Josephine, you had better bring her something to eat with it.  You haven’t had any supper, have you, child?”