“Very likely; but you see you didn’t,” remarked Amos.
“It was because I remembered stubbing my toe”—Allerton was painfully ploughing up his memories—“I am certain I stubbed my toe, and it must have been going round the—no; by—I beg your pardon—I stubbed it against the bed, going to the window. I was all wrong.”
“Just so,” agreed Amos, cheerfully. “And then you went to Foley, Miss Cary. Trust an Irishman for hiding anybody in trouble! But how did the house catch fire? Did you—”
But old Margaret protested vehemently that here at least she was sackless; and Mrs. Raker unexpectedly came to the rescue.
“I guess I can tell that much,” said she. “’Squire came back, and he’s got burns all over him, and he’s cut with glass bad! I guess he jumped back into the house and upset a lamp once too often!”
“I see it all,” said Amos. “And then you came back to rescue your nephew—”
“No, sir,” cried Margaret Cary; “I came back because they said you were in trouble. It’s wicked, but I couldn’t bear the thought he’d take me back to the crazies. I’m an old woman; and when you’re old you want to live in a house of your own, in your own way, and not be crowded. And it’s so awful to be crowded by crazies! I couldn’t bear it. I said he must take his chance; and I wouldn’t read the papers for fear they would shake my resolution. It was Foley read your advertisement to me. And then I knew if you were in danger, whatever happened to me, I would have to go.”
Amos wheeled round on young Allerton. “Now, young fellow,” said he, “speak out. Tell your aunt you won’t touch a hair of her head; and she may have her little invisible family gatherings all she likes.”
Allerton, smiling, came forward and took his aunt’s trembling hand. “You shall stay here or go home to your sister, who loves you, whichever you choose; and you shall be as safe and free there as here,” said he.
And looking into his dark eyes—the Cary eyes—she believed him.