A maid servant opened the door; but just behind appeared a white-haired lady in a black silk and black silk mitts; a three-cornered bit of black lace on her soft hair.
“You are Maida Westabrook,” she said smiling, “and you have come to see our little invalid. She’s awake and waiting for you. If you will follow me, I will take you to her.”
Maida followed Mrs. Fosdick up broad carpeted stairs and down a long sunny hallway. At the very end, the old lady pushed open a door. Silva was lying on a day couch, placed near a back window which overlooked the garden. A light gayly-flowered down puff covered her. Silva looked white but her strange amber-colored eyes seemed to hold a drop of fire.
“Good morning, Silva,” Maida said.
“Good morning,” Silva answered, but she used the words awkwardly, like one who has not been accustomed to this morning greeting.
“I’m glad you are better,” Maida went on and then paused in a little embarrassment. After an instant in which Silva said nothing she added, “How did it happen?”
Mrs. Fosdick interrupted. “I am going to leave you little girls alone to talk. I know you’ll have things to tell each other,” her kind old eyes smiled understandingly, “that you don’t want grown-ups to hear.”
“Oh no,” Maida said involuntarily but this was only instinctive politeness on her part. She very much desired to be alone with Silva. Silva was apparently too honest to say anything. She waited until Mrs. Fosdick’s footsteps were lost to hearing. Then she pulled herself upright with a sudden jerk. “How’s Nesta?” she asked breathlessly.
“She’s all right. She slept all night long without waking once—except when Rosie fed her at ten—and this morning she looks as sweet and dainty as a rose-bud. Don’t worry about Nesta, Silva. She’s all right. It’s you we’re worrying about.”
But this did not appear to interest Silva. “How did you find her?” she demanded.