Sally jumped up. “She’s awfully cranky since she’s been laid up with a broken leg. Keeps at me all the time,” said the girl in a weary voice. “I don’t know what to do to please her.”
“Who is she, anyway?” asked Terry.
“She’s Nancy Heron, that’s Jim Heron’s wife. They live here,” answered the girl as she went about her work.
Terry and Prim wanted to question her further, but Sally’s lips had drawn together in a bitter line. They feared that they had offended her.
Who was this girl? And what was that old woman to her? Terry longed to know, but now was not the time to ask.
As Sally leaned over the fire, the girls watched her intently. She did not seem to belong to this sinister looking house. Even with the blazing wood fire the room felt damp and uncomfortable. They shuddered at the thought of any girl living here and calling it home.
While the tea was preparing for Nancy, Sally flew about the kitchen, tidying up and whenever her footsteps paused, the voice always called her to account.
“Such a life!” thought Terry. “I’m glad I’m not Sally Wyn.”
Yet this was the only home that Sally knew. A few minutes later she said, “I just happened to be home this week. Mrs. Heron broke her leg and Mrs. Armes, the lady I work for, let me come to help.”
“That’s nice!” said Terry. “I’m glad you’re here.”