CHAPTER XXII
IN THE SADDLE
The little old lady “tidied” her own room. She hopped about like a bird with the aid of the ebony crutch, and Helen and Miss Van Ramsden heard the “step—put” of her movements when they entered the first room.
“Come in, deary!” cried the dear old soul. “I was expecting you. Ah, whom have we here? Good-day to you, ma’am!”
“Nurse Boyle! don’t you remember me?” cried the visitor, going immediately to the old lady and kissing her on both cheeks.
“Bless us, now! How would I know ye?” cried the old woman. “Is it me old eyes I have set on ye for many a long year now?”
“And I blame myself for it, Nurse,” cried May Van Ramsden. “Don’t you remember little May—the Van Ramsdens’ May—who used to come to see you so often when she was about so-o high?” cried the girl, measuring the height of a five or six-year-old.
“A neighbor’s baby did come to see Old Mary now and then,” cried the nurse. “But you’re never May?”
“I am, Nurse.”
“And growed so tall and handsome? Well, well, well! It does bate all, so it does. Everybody grows up but Mary Boyle; don’t they?” and the old woman cackled out a sweet, high laugh, and sat down to “visit” with her callers.