“That will be all right. I will settle it with Mr. Starkweather. Here is money, Gregson. Pay the fare and give the man a quarter for himself. Have the trunk brought into the basement. I will attend to Miss—er——?”
“Morrell.”
“Miss Morrell, myself,” finished the housekeeper.
The footman withdrew. The housekeeper looked hard at Helen for several moments.
“So you came here expecting hospitality—in your uncle’s house—and from your cousins?” she observed, jerkily. “Well!”
She got up and motioned Helen to take up her bag.
“Come. I have no orders regarding you. I shall give you one of the spare rooms. You are entitled to that much. No knowing when either Mr. Starkweather or the young ladies will be at home,” she said, grimly.
“I hope you won’t put yourself out,” observed Helen, politely.
“I am not likely to,” returned Mrs. Olstrom. “It is you who will be more likely—— Well!” she finished, without making her meaning very plain.
This reception, to cap all that had gone before since she had arrived at the Grand Central Terminal, chilled Helen. The shock of discovering that her mother’s sister was dead—and she and her father had not been informed of it—was no small one, either. She wished now that she had not come to the house at all.