“Good morning!” Lynda said kindly. “Can I do anything for you? I am sorry you had to wait.”
She concluded it was some one connected with the Saxe Home. That was largely in her mind at the moment.
“I want to see”—and here the strange little figure came to Lynda and held out a very dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which was written Truedale’s name and address.
“Mr. Truedale may not be home until evening,” Lynda said. And now she thought that this must be one of the private and pet dependents of Con’s with whom she would deal very gently and tactfully. “I wonder if you won’t tell me all about it and I will either tell Mr. Truedale or set a time for you to see him.”
Glad of any help in this hour of extremity, the stranger said:
“I’m—I’m Nella-Rose. Do you know about me?”
Know about her? Why, after the first stunning shock, she seemed to be the only thing Lynda did know about—ever had known! She stared at the little figure before her for what seemed an hour. She noted the worried, pitiful child face that, screened behind the worn and care-lined features, looked forth like a pretty flower. Then Lynda said, weakly:
“Yes, I know about you—all about you, Nella-Rose.”
The pitiful eyes brightened. What Nella-Rose had been through since leaving her hills only God understood.
“I’m right glad! And you—you are—”