“Come in!” said a sharp voice, and Helen was ushered into the presence of a female with a face quite in keeping with the tone of her voice.
The lady was of uncertain age. She wore a cap, but it did not entirely hide the fact that her thin, straw-colored hair was done up in curl-papers. She was vinegary of feature, her light blue eyes were as sharp as gimlets, and her lips were continually screwed up into the expression of one determined to say “prunes.”
She sat in a straight-backed chair in the sitting-room, in a flowered silk bed-wrapper, and she looked just as glad to see Helen as though the girl were her deadliest enemy.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Helen Morrell,” said the girl.
“What do you want of Mr. Starkweather at this hour?”
“Just what I would want of him at any hour,” returned the Western girl, who was beginning to become heartily exasperated.
“What’s that, Miss?” snapped the housekeeper.
“I have come to him for hospitality. I am his relative—rather, I am Aunt Eunice’s relative——”
“What do you mean, child?” exclaimed the lady, with sudden emotion. “Who is your Aunt Eunice?”