“Yes,” said Ellen, “that was how it was. Your—your mother liked the name too.”
Moira felt a wave of compassion for the lonely old woman. There seemed to be nothing left to do but to go. She rose as if to do so, and then that impulse of sympathy caused her to sit down beside the other on the bed. She spoke very gently.
“Ellen, I’m sorry, I’ve been opening an old wound, haven’t I? I can see that it hurts you. You understand why I am so interested—because of the name? That’s natural, isn’t it? But I’m glad to have learned about it. I shall think of you so differently from now on.”
“Yes, Miss Moira, thank you.” The girl’s closeness to her and sympathy made Ellen’s voice tremble. She looked down at the letter which she had been rolling and twisting in her fingers, and following her glance, Moira realized that her own curiosity was not appeased at all. The mystery was as much a mystery as ever.
“Why, you’re destroying your letter,” she said with a laugh, and took it from her and straightened it out. “You must have been fond of Miss McCoy,” she added gently. “Was she your friend?”
“Yes.”
“Was she sick, in the hospital?”
“No, she—she was a nurse.”
“Oh, of course. She speaks of being so busy and of missing you. And you had your baby there?”
“Yes.”