“I—I—Well, it is an old lady who was once nurse in the family and I believe Uncle Starkweather cares for her——”
“It’s never Nurse Boyle?” cried Miss Van Ramsden, suddenly starting up. “Why! I remember about her. But somehow, I thought she had died years ago. Why, as a child I used to visit her at the house, and she used to like to have me come to see her. That was before your cousins lived here, Helen. Then I went to Europe for several years and when we returned the house had all been done over, your uncle’s family was here, and I think—I am not sure—somebody told me dear old Mary Boyle was dead.”
“No,” observed Helen, thoughtfully. “She is not dead. She is only forgotten.”
Miss Van Ramsden looked at the Western girl for some moments in silence. She seemed to understand the whole matter without a word of further explanation.
“Would you mind letting me see Mary Boyle while I am here?” she asked, gravely. “She was a very lovely old soul, and all the families hereabout—I have heard my mother often say—quite envied the Starkweathers their possession of such a treasure.”
“Certainly we can go in and see her,” declared Helen, throwing all discretion to the winds. “I was going to read to her this afternoon, anyway. Come along!”
She led the caller through the hall to Mary Boyle’s little suite of rooms. To herself Helen said:
“Let the wild winds of disaster blow! Whew! If the family hears of this I don’t know but they will want to have me arrested—or worse! But what can I do? And then—Mary Boyle deserves better treatment at their hands.”