And after the good old people died—what then? Their property here on the Head and their money would no more belong to Sheila Macklin than it did now. She shrank in horror from the thought of swindling the real Ida May out of anything which might legally be hers when the Balls were gone. Of course, Cap'n Ira and Prudence could will their property to whom they pleased. Still, Ida May was Prudence's niece!
As the day dragged on, Ida May did not appear, but the old folks talked about her continually, until Sheila thought she must cry aloud to them to stop.
"The poor thing must be half-witted, of course," Mrs. Ball said ruminatively. "Can't be otherwise. But she must have known something about Sarah Honey and her folks."
"Seems likely," agreed Cap'n Ira.
"Now, you know, Ira, Sarah was an orphan and I was her mother's only relation—and only that in a kind of a left-handed way, for I wasn't really her aunt. That branch of the Honeys—Sarah's father's folks—had all died out. Sarah lived about—kinder from pillar to post as you might say—till she went to Boston and met Mr. Bostwick. Isn't that so, Ida May?"
"Yes. So I understand," agreed the girl faintly.
"Now, you don't remember your mother much, Ida May," pursued Prudence confidently. "You was too young when she died. And you being brought up among the Bostwicks, you didn't know much about us down here on the Cape. But don't you remember any neighbor that lived near you there in Boston that had a gal something like this crazy one that come here?"
"I swan!" ejaculated Cap'n Ira. "You're coming out strong, old woman, I do say."
Sheila could only shake her head.
"Why, see," said Prudence, encouraged by her husband's commendation, "there might have been a neighbor woman that Sarah—your mother, you know, Ida May—was close acquainted with. Maybe she used to talk with this neighbor a good deal about her young days, and how she lived down here. You know women often gossip that way."