“Well, it was ever so nice of you, my dear. My daughter never will lock the doors. She says there is no one who wants to come in, for harm, and I suppose she is right. I thought I heard something fall in the house, but like as not it was something just outside that the wind blew down.”
It was plain that the little old lady was trying to assure herself that all was well, but as Anne went nearer she could see that she was shivering. “You’re cold, aren’t you?” she asked kindly.
“Yes, I tried to get up but I couldn’t.”
“Well, I’ll cover you more, then I’ll make you a warm drink. I’m going to stay with you till Miss Torrence comes.” The girl had made this sudden decision. She knew that, brave as the little old lady was trying to be, she had been greatly frightened.
A frail hand reached out and a grateful glance assured the girl that she was right.
“Oh, how kind you are! I’ll tell my daughter. She’ll be so pleased. Somehow she didn’t want to leave me alone tonight. The wind makes me lonesome-like, when she’s gone.”
“I know. It makes me lonesome sometimes, too, for my mother. She didn’t live many years after I came. Grandmother brought me up and she tried to teach me to be good—but—I guess I’ve failed.”
The frail hand patted the arm of the girl. “Dearie, how can you say that when you’re being so kind to me? I wish all girls were as good and as thoughtful of old folks as you are.”
Anne hurried to the kitchen. She could not understand why tears had come. She lighted the fire, and, finding there a pan of broth, she heated it. Then lifting the little old lady she gave it to her. A few moments later a clock in the study struck eight. “I think I’ll go now,” Anne said, rising. “Miss Torrence will be here directly.”
“Of course, dear girl, go right along. That warm broth has made me so sleepy I’ll be drowsing when daughter gets here. Promise you’ll come and see me again. Next to Virginia Davis I like you best of any of the girls.”