"May we bring Cecily some quinine?" she ventured. "If she has malaria, she ought to have that. We have lots of it at home."
"It would be very kind of you," replied Miss Benedict, in an entirely different tone. "Come to-morrow and see her again—if your aunt will permit it. Perhaps it would be well to explain to her—" and here her manner became confused—"that—I—er—do not make calls or—or receive them, but this is just—just for the sake of the child." It was plain to the girls that this admission was wrung from her only by a great effort. She opened the front door and followed them to the gate. When she had unlocked it, Marcia turned to her impulsively.
"Thank you so much for letting us come! We are very, very fond of Cecily. She is such a dear, and we've been terribly worried about her. As a relative, I'm afraid you have been still more anxious."
The black figure started. "She is no relative of mine!" came abruptly from behind the veil.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, I should say—friend," stuttered Marcia, embarrassed, "or—or the daughter of a friend, perhaps."
"She is not," Miss Benedict contradicted, in a strange, flat tone, as if repeating a lesson. "I do not know who she is—nor why she is here!"