"But how," Grace demanded, still too dazed to think clearly, "can Mrs.
Sanderson's son be William Mullins?"
"Goodness! how do we know?" returned Mollie, wiping two tears from the end
of her nose. "It's all the biggest kind of a m-mystery, anyway. Oh, dear,
has anybody got a handkerchief?" as two other tears threatened to make
their appearance. "I didn't know I had it in me to be such a goose."
"We seldom do realize our possibilities," drawled Grace, but Mollie was
too busy wiping away the traces of her weakness to notice the insult.
"And to think," Amy murmured softly, "that if that old motorcyclist hadn't
knocked Mrs. Sanderson down, she would have gone away without finding her
son, and the chances are she would never have seen him again."
"I suppose you think we ought to send the motorcyclist a vote of thanks,"
remarked Mollie dryly, recovering herself a little. "If he keeps on
knocking old ladies down in the middle of the road and then gets himself
arrested, he may be counted on to do a lot of good in the world."
"I don't see how you can say such silly things," Amy began hotly, when
Betty broke in pleadingly:
"Please, please, girls!" she said, smiling as only Betty knew how to
smile. "What is the use of quarreling about miracles? The most wonderful
thing in all the world has happened, and what do we care how it happened?
Just think of it!" she added, leaning forward eagerly.
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