Part 30 (1/2)

Hartwell-Jones for half an hour or so, then departed again for New York.

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones ordered still another taxicab.

”We have over two hours before our train leaves, dear, and so suppose we drive about to the different places you know about. Would you like to?

Do you remember the street and number where your Miss Reese used to live?”

Letty gave the address, which was quite near by, and as they drove past the house she related again, with eager interest, the exciting tale of the fire. Then they were driven down Chestnut Street and Letty's eyes shone as they pa.s.sed the shops she recollected having visited with Miss Reese on the memorable Christmas shopping expedition.

”Is this where you had your first taste of ice-cream soda-water?” asked Mrs. Hartwell-Jones as the cab stopped in front of a large candy shop.

”Then we must have some now, for old times' sake. And let us take a box of candy back to the twins.”

They did a good deal of shopping, of one sort or another, and then Mrs.

Hartwell-Jones gave the chauffeur a direction that made him stare. It brought the tears to Letty's eyes suddenly and a great lump to her throat.

Far down-town they drove, out of the range of stylishly equipped carriages and motor cars; out of the range of big shops and smooth streets. The pavement grew rougher and dirtier, the houses and small shops that lined the street, shabbier and shabbier.

Letty leaned forward out of the carriage window, her eyes large, curious, almost frightened, fixed on each familiar spot as it was pa.s.sed. She clasped her hands tightly together and drew her breath in short, audible inspirations.

”Ah, there is the house, there it is!” she exclaimed at length, and Mrs.

Hartwell-Jones gave the signal to stop.

The cab came to a halt at the curb, the motor continuing to throb with an even, businesslike regularity.

The little motor inside Letty's small body was throbbing too, wildly, now fast and now slow, as she gazed at the shabby, dingy house that had been her home. It looked shabbier and dingier than ever, and there were neither fresh muslin curtains nor blooming plants at the third-story front windows where her mother used to sit and sew.

No familiar faces were to be seen. Several people went in and out of the front door, turning to stare curiously at the lady and little girl sitting in the motor car. But Letty had never seen any of them before.

There were children playing on the door-step next door, but they were not Emma Haines nor Tottie. It all seemed completely changed.

”Oh, dear!” sighed Letty.

Then she turned and threw herself into Mrs. Hartwell-Jones's outstretched arms.

”My mother, my mother!” she sobbed. ”How I want my mother!”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones soothed her as best she could, wondering the while if she had done wrong to bring back the old a.s.sociations.

”I know it is hard, dear little girl,” she whispered, ”but I think some day you will be glad we came. It will help to fix the picture in your mind. It keeps our memories fresher and more precious, you know, if we have the pictures of their surroundings clearly in our mind.

”Take one last look, dear, and then we shall go. I pray I may be able to keep you as good and happy as your dear mother did, my precious little Letty!”

The cab moved slowly, with increasing speed, away from the dingy street, back to the gay, prosperous part of the city; back to the life that was to be Letty's henceforth.

The child's sobs soon ceased and she drew back from the comforting shoulder. But she still clung to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones's hand for solace, and there were tears in the brown eyes that tried bravely to smile.

”You are so good to me!” she exclaimed. ”My mother would be so grateful to you if she knew!”

”She does know, up in heaven. I am sure she does, Letty, dear. And we shall both do our best to keep good and happy, shall we not? for that would please her best.