After talking a while longer, they all filed into the living room; began to look about for their books. Suddenly the telephone bell rang. Maida was nearest. “I hope nothing else has happened,” she said as she took off the receiver.
“I want to talk with Maida Westabrook,” came a girl’s voice over the wire to her. Strange it was and yet it had a familiar ring; the strangeness was its weakness and its breathlessness.
“I am Maida Westabrook.”
“Listen! I must talk quick. They will be back and stop me. I am Silva Burle. They think I am asleep. I have tried to tell them. They won’t listen. They think I am raving. I’m not. I’ve got my senses. My baby sister, Nesta, is in a cave on the other side of the lake. Tyma is away. There’s nobody to feed her. She’ll starve—”
“I found her this afternoon, Silva,” Maida interrupted. “She’s upstairs in the Little House now—fast asleep.”
“Oh!” Silva’s voice dropped almost as though she were faint. Then suspiciously, “Are you saying this to me because you think I’m raving? Oh tell me the truth. I ask God to be my witness that I am telling you the truth.”
“Yes, Silva,” Maida said steadily, “I am telling you the truth. I give you my word of honor. I went across the lake this morning. I heard the baby crying. I followed the sound and found her. Don’t worry any more about her. We’ll keep her here just as long as you’re ill.” She started to add the news of Mrs. Dore’s accident, of Granny’s and Floribel’s absence, but a sudden discreet impulse bade her not to go on. Instead she said, “How did you happen to have the baby in that cave?”
“It’s a long story,” answered Silva weakly. “I can’t tell you now. Will you come to see me to-morrow?”
“Yes,” Maida agreed, “in the morning.”