“That little first floor corner—”
“Yes, behind the storeroom, down by the west wing—”
“I knew there was a corner of the house there, but it’s been shut up for ages,” replied Rosa, already showing her eagerness to hear all of the story.
“Well, poor Orilla could never give up that room, and she has been coming to it every chance she got. She took me in there to-night and I never saw anything so pathetic,” explained Nancy simply. “She fairly loves the room and insists that it should still be hers.”
“Can you—beat—that!” Rosa was so surprised no other wording seemed strong enough for her. “Coming to that little cubby-hole! Say, Nancy, honestly, do you think that Orilla’s crazy?”
“No, I don’t. But I’ve heard mother tell of such cases. And I’ve read about girls keeping their baby loves, old dolls, you know, and things like that. But this is the oddest—”
“For mercy sakes! How ever did she manage it?” Rosa asked, blinking hard to see through the surprising tale.
Then Nancy told her, as well as she could, how Orilla came by the elderberry path, from the lake, through the maze of wild grape vines to the small door of the small porch at the west end of the big rambling house.
“I always said,” put in Rosa, “that there was a door for each servant around this house, but I must have missed that one. Well, poor old Orilla! I guess she’s quite a wreck, isn’t she?”
“She had a headache, as I told you, but she seemed glad to get rid of some of her secrets, and I don’t wonder,” admitted Nancy. “She has enough secrets to make a book. But I told her I wasn’t going to keep any more of them. I told her I was going to tell you everything she told me.”