“That old hospital is still there, Ellen. I’ve driven by it a dozen times going to town. It doesn’t look like a very cheerful place to have a baby, but I guess it was nicer in those days.”
“It was all right,” said Ellen. Moira impulsively reached an arm about her waist.
“Well, I’m going now. You don’t want to talk any more about it, do you, dear? I’ll ask mother to tell me the story. Can I—can I keep this letter, just to show her? I’ll tell her the odd way I came across it.”
Ellen’s hand flew in terror to the crumpled letter.
“No—no, please, Miss Moira. Give it to me,” she begged.
The violence of her action, its commanding tone, brought a flush of anger to Moira’s face. She relinquished the letter.
“Oh,” she said, in a changed voice. “I suppose I should apologize—that is, no doubt you are angry that I read it.”
“Yes, you shouldn’t have done that.”
The servant spoke for the first time naturally, sincerely and vigorously, and by contrast it made all her previous answers seem to Moira like a patch-work of unreality and embarrassed evasion. Moreover, the accusing tone of the remark added fuel to her resentment. She arose and drew her dressing gown about her with a gesture of dignity. This time she certainly must go. And yet she was hurt and offended. Her only intent had been one of genuine interest and sympathy, and it had been badly received. As she stood in the floor in this puzzled, dissatisfied state, she caught sight of Ellen’s face appealing to her pathetically.
“Please, Miss Moira,” the woman whispered hoarsely, “don’t tell Mrs. Seymour, don’t tell her about this letter, or that you were here, or anything.”