“I suppose you think I’m awfully curious, Ellen,” she said, with a short laugh. “And very inconsiderate to come and talk to you about these things at this time of night. But it seems so strange that you’ve been here ever since I can remember, and I’ve never heard about them—I suppose I thought you didn’t have an early life. You’re so cheerful, one doesn’t imagine you’ve had sorrows.”
“People forget, ma’am. You can’t stay sad always.”
“Isn’t it funny,” Moira broke in, “that I’ve got the same name your daughter had?”
“Ye-es—I guess it is.”
Ellen’s forced laugh and strained expression, and the tongue-tied moment that followed, were as hard for Moira as for the speaker. The silence lengthened. The older woman twisted in her uncomfortable seat on the bed. She obviously did not want to be looked at nor to look at the girl. Why, thought Moira, should she make all this fuss over old memories? What harm was in them? Ellen was not naturally shy—she could be voluble enough at times, and quite intelligent.
“And we were just about the same age, weren’t we?”
“No, oh, no,” burst out the other, and stopped suddenly.
“But the letter is dated so near my birthday,” said Moira, a little brusquely, “and speaks of your baby’s christening. We’d have to be.”
“Bu-but—my little girl was christened very late.”
“She was christened about the time I was, by the same name, and in the same house? Why, it’s really a romantic idea, isn’t it?”