“I hope you aint sickening down for scarlet fever or dipthery, or any of those dangerous things, an’ you so far off from home,” said she, looking anxiously at Marion’s flushed face and heavy eyes.
“No, no, Mrs. Jones; there is nothing the matter with me but fatigue and worry; but you are lovely to come, and I will never forget your kindness. I am in great trouble and must have help from somebody.”
Then good Mrs. Jones, instead of shrinking away with the feeling strangers often have that a young person all alone in a strange place had probably brought her trouble, whatever it was upon herself and therefore deserved it, took her on her lap as she sat in the straight-backed little rocking-chair, and, smoothing back her curly hair, murmured:
“There, there, poor little thing!” as if she had been a tired baby. “Tell me all about it, dearie, and pa and me between us can likely help you out some way.”
Marion could not doubt her, so as rapidly as she could she told her how she had followed Elfie and now had rescued her from the people who had undoubtedly been hired to steal her by those who had an interest in getting possession of her.
“And now,” said Mrs. Jones, who had constantly interrupted the story with exclamations, questions, and conjectures, “you had better bring the little dear right over to my place.”
“No, no, Mrs. Jones; I dare not do that. I cannot let any one see Elfie or know that I have her here till I can get Mrs. Abbott. Madame Belotti or some of those people may be hiding and watching, and if they saw Elfie and claimed her how could I prove that I had a right to keep her from them?”
“My gracious! Aint she got a wise old head on her young shoulders?” said Mrs. Jones, shaking her own head at the bowl and pitcher on the washstand as if they were, like herself, lost in admiration of such youthful sagacity.
“What I hope you will do for me, Mrs. Jones, is to go and telegraph to Mrs. Abbott.”
“Of course I will; what shall I say?”