"We must see that the child has the quinine, and it wouldn't hurt her to have a glass or two of currant jelly. Don't forget them when you go in to-morrow," Miss Minerva reminded them. "I'd like to have her here and nurse her myself and feed her up a bit. And that's another strange thing—why should that woman" (Miss Minerva invariably alluded to Miss Benedict as "that woman") "allow you to go in and visit the child, yet forbid her to visit you?"
"Don't ask us why," laughed Marcia. "We're as much in the dark as any one else. What I want to know is why did Miss Benedict allow Cecily to open her shutters to-day when she refused her a while ago. And why doesn't she open them over all the rest of the house?"
"Well, what I want to know," added Janet, "is why Cecily's mother should have sent her over here to the Benedicts' at all, when nobody knew her or claimed her. Whatever made her think of such a thing?"
"There are several explanations that might suit such a case," mused Miss Minerva. "Mrs. Marlowe might have been a married sister, or some more distant relative, who—"
"Then wouldn't Miss Benedict know about it—or at least suspect some such connection?" interrupted Marcia.
"That's true," acknowledged her aunt. "There must be some other explanation. What a puzzle!"
"What's more," added Janet, "I remember that Cecily told us this: when she first came, Miss Benedict questioned her all about herself—where she came from, and all that. And after Cecily had told her she never said a word, but just walked away, shaking her head."
Miss Minerva's mind suddenly took a new turn. "Didn't you say the child sent you a couple of gifts—little trinkets—not long ago? I'd like to see them."
"We've never worn them," said Marcia. "It just seemed as if we couldn't—she ought not to have given them away. And yet—I know just how she felt—she wanted to do something! I'll get them." She brought the box and laid it in her aunt's lap.