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       Eleanor H. Porter

      The Turn of the Tide

      The Story of How Margaret Solved Her Problem

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664623300

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       CHAPTER XX

       CHAPTER XXI

       CHAPTER XXII

       CHAPTER XXIII

       CHAPTER XXIV

       CHAPTER XXV

       CHAPTER XXVI

       CHAPTER XXVII

       CHAPTER XXVIII

       CHAPTER XXIX

       CHAPTER XXX

       CHAPTER XXXI

       CHAPTER XXXII

       CHAPTER XXXIII

       CHAPTER XXXIV

       CHAPTER XXXV

       CHAPTER XXXVI

       CHAPTER XXXVII

       CHAPTER XXXVIII

       CHAPTER XXXIX

       CHAPTER XL

       CHAPTER XLI

       Table of Contents

      Margaret had been home two hours—two hours of breathless questions, answers, tears, and laughter—two hours of delighted wandering about the house and grounds.

      In the nursery she had seen the little woolly dog that lay on the floor just as she had left it five years before; and out on the veranda steps she had seen the great stone lions that had never quite faded from her memory. And always at her side had walked the sweet-faced lady of her dreams, only now the lady was very real, with eyes that smiled on one so lovingly, and lips and hands that kissed and caressed one so tenderly.

      “And this is home—my home?” Margaret asked in unbelieving wonder.

      “Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. Kendall.

      “And you are my mother, and I am Margaret Kendall, your little girl?”

      “Yes.”

      “And the little dog on the floor—that was mine, and—and it’s been there ever since?”

      “Yes, ever since you left it there long ago. I—I could not bear to have any one move it, or touch it.”

      “And I was lost then—right then?”

      “No, dear. We traveled about for almost a year. You were five when I lost you.” Mrs. Kendall’s voice shook. Unconsciously she drew Margaret into a closer embrace. Even now she was scarcely sure that it was Margaret—this little maid who had stepped so suddenly out of the great silence that had closed about her four long years before.

      Margaret laughed softly, and nestled in the encircling arms.

      “I like it—this,” she confided shyly. “You see, I—I hain’t had it before. Even the dream-lady didn’t do—this.”

      “The

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