“She was sitting in a pavilion, her face buried in her hands, and sobbing very quietly. I went up and asked her if I could help her.”
“And she accepted?”
“No, not right away. She said she was very ill, and had lost her money, and would be grateful if I could take her in for a night. Naturally I took her home. She gave her name as Dorothy Snyder, of Edgetown, New York.”
“As you know, I took care of her till she got better. She never talked much, except to tell me how grateful she was for my kindness. Once she told me that she had been through an awful experience, and begged me not to ask her any questions. Of course I promised.”
“Don’t you suppose she will ever tell us about herself?”
“Yes, but I think she is trying to shield somebody or hide something, and will not tell till everything is cleared up.”
“Do you—did you ever think she had done anything wrong herself?” John asked the question fearfully, as if he dreaded lest the answer might be in the affirmative.
“No,” replied his mother, decidedly. “I am sure of the girl’s innocence. I don’t know how or why, but I am.”
The young man breathed a sigh of relief, and yet he was not entirely satisfied. He longed to go to the bottom of the matter, to tear aside the veil, as it were, from Dorothy’s obscurity, and have her for a friend as he might have any other normal girl.
He was glad, however, that she never avoided him now, that since he had told her about Marjorie, she raised no barrier to their continuous companionship during his visits to his mother. Accordingly, when he asked her to go for a walk with him on Sunday afternoon, she willingly agreed.