"Yes, I sent for them," answered the old woman, lowering her voice to a natural pitch. "The girl is here."
"Patty? Where is she?"
Drawing her hand from Corinna's clasp, Patty moved slowly to the head of the bed, and standing there beside the deformed old woman, she looked down on the upturned face.
"I came as I promised. Can I help you?" she asked; and her voice was so quiet, so repressed, that Corinna looked at her anxiously. How much had the girl understood? And, if she understood, what difference would it make in her life—and in Stephen's life?
"I couldn't tell you the other day because of Julius," said the woman, in a strangled tone. "I couldn't say things before Julius." Then, glancing toward the door, she asked breathlessly, "Didn't Gideon Vetch come with you?"
"Father?" responded Patty, wonderingly. "Do you want Father to come?"
A smile crossed the woman's face, and she made a movement as if she wanted to raise her head. "Do you call him Father?" she returned in a pleased voice.
At the question, Corinna sprang up and made an impulsive step forward. "Oh, don't!" she cried out pleadingly. "Don't tell her!"
"But he is my father," Patty's tone was stern and accusing. "He is my father."
The smile was still on the woman's face; but while Corinna watched it, she realized that it was unlike any smile she had ever seen before in her life—a smile of satisfaction that was at the same time one of relinquishment.