"I have been thinking about those two step-daughters of yours, Seraph and Minta. You must have lived a strange life with them."
Ruth turned surprised eyes upon her.
"I did not suppose that you had ever heard of the girls," she said. "Erskine was so young when they left us that I thought he scarcely remembered them."
"Oh, he remembers them very well. He has told me some things; but it was Mrs. Portland from whom I received their connected history. She was here for two months while you were away, and was quite intimate with me; she ran in often, and liked nothing better than to talk about you and those two girls."
Now Mrs. Portland was an old resident of the neighborhood who had known Judge Burnham and his daughters before Ruth had heard of their existence. What she could reveal of their history if she chose, would leave nothing for another to tell. The question was, Why had their story interested this sick woman? Or rather, why was it being brought forward just now?
"It seems strange that they both came back to you to die, doesn't it?"
This was certainly a strange way of putting it! Ruth hesitated how to reply. At last, she said:—
"Seraph never left home, you know; and poor Minta was glad to return to it. She had been through a very bitter experience."
"Yes, I heard about it. You have had all sorts of experiences yourself, haven't you? And to conclude with a good-for-nothing daughter-in-law seems too bad!"
Surprise and almost consternation held Ruth silent. This was so utterly unlike any sentence that she had expected! Irene's tone expressed both sympathy and regret. Ruth decided to pass it off lightly. She laughed a little in a way that was intended to express good cheer, as she said:—