"No—not yet. She'll be his private secretary. That is all. I'm relying on you to—er—apply for the situation for her." Helen's eyes were merry.
"Oh, nonsense! This is too absurd for words," spluttered the doctor.
"I don't think so."
"His own daughter writing his letters for him, and living with him day by day, and he not to know it? Bosh! Sounds like a plot from a shilling shocker!"
"Does it? Well, I ought not to mind that, ought I?—you know 'twas a book in the first place that set me to making myself 'swell' and 'grand,' sir." In Helen's eyes was still twinkling mischief.
"Oh, but, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Thayer with genuine concern. "I do think this is impossible."
The expression on Helen Denby's face changed instantly. Her eyes grew very grave, but luminously tender. Her lips trembled a little.
"People, dear people, if you'll listen just a minute I think I can convince you," she begged. "I have it all planned out. Betty and I will go to Dalton and find a quiet little home somewhere. Oh, I shall keep well out of sight—never fear," she nodded, in reply to the quick doubt in the doctor's eyes. "Betty shall go every morning to her father's house, and—I'm not afraid of Betty. He will love her. He can't help it. And he will see how dear and sweet and good she is. Then, by and by, he shall know that she is his—his very own."
"But—but Betty herself! Can she act her part in this remarkable scheme?" demanded the doctor.
"She won't be acting a part. She'll just be acting herself. She is not to know anything except that she is his secretary."