The last statement was entirely true. Any notion Lucile had of the girl, any guess at her hidden secrets, was based on observation and conjecture alone. Not one word regarding them had escaped the strange girl’s lips.
Having accompanied Lucile to the store, she had lain upon a couch in the “quiet room” for three hours. Whenever Lucile had stolen a moment from work to look in upon her, the girl had appeared to be day-dreaming. Far from being worried about events of the past or the immediate future, she had appeared to be enjoying the recalling of an interesting adventure or anticipating one.
At five she had risen from the cot and, having brushed her hair and arranged her clothing, had insisted upon helping her new-found friend to put her tables to rights. She had accepted Lucile’s invitation to pass the night with her with the nonchalance of one who is offered this courtesy from a long-time friend.
Innocent of one scrap of baggage, in the same manner she had accepted Lucile’s offer of a dream robe.
In only one respect had she showed her independence. Having produced a dollar bill from somewhere on her person, she had insisted on paying for her own frugal lunch.
“Her clothes are the strangest of all,” Lucile whispered to herself. “When a girl comes upon a run of hard luck, she’s likely to try to keep up an appearance even though she is shabby underneath. But look at her; a countrified suit of shiny blue serge, two years behind the times, and her undergarments are new and of the finest silk, up to the minute, too. How is one to explain that?”
She was not disturbed in the least about the girl’s morals. She was as sweet and clean as a fresh blooming rose. Lucile would have sworn to that. With the lights turned out, and with the tingling winter air entering the open window, before retiring the girl had joined Lucile in the nightly “setting up” exercises and had appeared to enjoy them, too.
The strange girl’s skin was like the finest satin. Her lines were perfect, her muscles superb. Through lack of knowledge of the exercises, she often blundered. But she could whirl more quickly, leap higher and swing about more gracefully than Lucile, who had never failed to throw her whole heart into her gym work.
“All that,” Lucile murmured as she drew off her bathrobe preparatory to slipping beneath the covers, “all that, and she has not told me one word about herself. For a country girl she certainly has her full supply of reserve. To-morrow I am to try to get work for her as a wrapper. No doubt I can do it. And then?”
She thought about the future for a moment. She was alone this year. If you have read our book, “The Cruise of the O’Moo,” you will remember that while living in the yacht in dry dock she had two companions—Florence and Marion. Florence had gone home. Marion was in Alaska. Now Lucile was alone. She would welcome a friend and, unless she had misread her character, this girl had the qualities of a steadfast and loyal pal.