Billy gave a little cry.
“Why, it is—it must be! My Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?”
“Well, it does look like it,” rejoined Arkwright, showing even deeper interest. “I haven't seen them for four or five years. They used to live in our town. The mother was a little sweet-faced woman with young eyes and prematurely white hair.”
“That describes my Mrs. Greggory exactly,” cried Billy's eager voice. “And the daughter?”
“Alice? Why—as I said, it's been four years since I've seen her.” A touch of constraint had come into Arkwright's voice which Billy's keen ear was quick to detect. “She was nineteen then and very pretty.”
“About my height, and with light-brown hair and big blue-gray eyes that look steely cold when she's angry?” questioned Billy.
“I reckon that's about it,” acknowledged the man, with a faint smile.
“Then they are the ones,” declared the girl, plainly excited. “Isn't that splendid? Now we can know them, and perhaps do something for them. I love that dear little mother already, and I think I should the daughter—if she didn't put out so many prickers that I couldn't get near her! But tell us about them. How did they come here? Why didn't you know they were here?”
“Are you good at answering a dozen questions at once?” asked Aunt Hannah, turning smiling eyes from Billy to the man at her side.
“Well, I can try,” he offered. “To begin with, they are Judge Greggory's widow and daughter. They belong to fine families on both sides, and they used to be well off—really wealthy, for a small town. But the judge was better at money-making than he was at money-keeping, and when he came to die his income stopped, of course, and his estate was found to be in bad shape through reckless loans and worthless investments. That was eight years ago. Things went from bad to worse then, until there was almost nothing left.”