"Not at all; this is a free country, and it is not an unheard-of thing for people to change their names," said my father, anxious now to relieve the embarrassment which he had innocently caused. "I must see about your luggage, Agneta. Is there a conveyance outside, Nan?"
"John and the wagonette are there," I said. "Come, Agneta, we may as well take our seats."
Father was about to shake hands with Miss Cottrell when I said hurriedly:
"Miss Cottrell is coming with us, father; she is staying at 'Gay Bowers.'"
"Oh, that is right," he said quickly, but I saw a gleam of amusement leap into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched.
Poor Miss Cottrell looked utterly bewildered and crestfallen as she followed us to the wagonette. She hardly said a word as we drove homewards. Father and I had a great deal to say to one another. I wanted to hear all the home news, but I tried to draw Agneta into the talk. As I observed her, it struck me that she was more like my mother than her own. I could trace no resemblance in her features to Aunt Clara, but something in her face reminded me of mother.
For some time Miss Cottrell's tongue was absolutely still, a thing I could hardly have believed possible, until father said:
"By the way, Miss Smith—Cottrell, I mean—I remember that it was only in the summer that you were at the 'Havelock Arms.' You lived with a lady—all, I have forgotten her name—who had an afflicted daughter whose nurse you were."
"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Cottrell angrily, "I was her companion."
"That would be the same thing under the circumstances, would it not?" he asked gently.