"Does Mrs. Reynolds know who you really are?" interposed the doctor.

"Yes, oh, yes. I told her long ago--even before she took me to London with her, in fact. I thought she ought to know. I've been so glad, since, that I did. It saved me from lots of awkward moments. Besides, it enabled her to be all the more help to me."

"But what was it Betty said to her?" asked Mrs. Thayer.

"Oh, yes; I didn't tell you, did I? It was this. She asked Mrs. Reynolds one day: 'Did you ever know my father?' And of course Mrs. Reynolds said, 'No.' Then Betty said: 'He is dead, you know. Oh, mother never told me so, in words; but I understand that he is, of course. She just used to say that I mustn't ask for daddy. He couldn't be with us now.

That was all. At first, when I was little, I thought he was away on a journey. Then, when I got older, I realized it was just mother's beautiful way of putting it. So now I like to think of him as being just away on a journey. And of _course_ I never say anything to mother. But I do wish I could have known him. He must have been so fine and splendid!'"

"The dear child!" murmured Mrs. Thayer.

The doctor turned on his heel and walked over to the window abruptly.

There was a moment's silence; then softly, Helen said, as she rose to her feet: "So you see now I'm not worrying so much for fear she will question me; and I shall be so happy, by and by, when she finds that daddy has been, after all, only on a journey."

Edith Thayer, alone with her brother, after Helen Denby had gone upstairs, wiped her eyes.

It was the doctor who spoke first.

"If Burke Denby doesn't fall head over heels in love with that little woman and _know_ he's got the dearest treasure on earth, I--I shall do it myself," he declared savagely. He, too, was wiping his eyes.

His sister laughed tremulously.

"Well, I am in love with her--and I'm not ashamed to own it," she declared. "How altogether dear and charming and winsome she is! And when you think--what these years have done for her!"

CHAPTER XX

THE CURTAIN RISES

It was, indeed, quite "easy"--surprisingly so, as the doctor soon found out. Not without some trepidation, however, had he taken the train for Dalton the next morning and presented his proposition to the master of Denby House.

"I think I've found your private secretary," he began blithely, hoping that his pounding heart-throbs did not really sound like a drum.

"You have? Good! What's her name? Somebody you know?" questioned Burke Denby, with a show of interest.

"Yes. She's a Miss Darling, and I've known her family for years." (The doctor gulped and swallowed a bit convulsively. The doctor was feeling that the very walls of the room must be shouting aloud his secret--but he kept bravely on.) "She doesn't know shorthand, but she can typewrite, and she's very quick at taking dictation in long hand, I fancy; and she knows several languages, I believe. I'm sure you'll find her capable and trustworthy in every way."

"Very good! Sounds well, sure," smiled Burke. "And here, for my needs, speed and shorthand are not so necessary. I do only personal business at the house. What salary does she want?"

So unexpected and disconcerting was this quite natural question that the doctor, totally unprepared for it, nearly betrayed himself by his confusion.

"Eh? Er--ah--oh, great Scott! Why didn't they--I might have known--" he floundered. Then, sharply, he recovered himself. "Well, really," he laughed lightly, "I'm a crackerjack at applying for a job, and no mistake! I quite forgot to ask what salary she did expect. But I don't believe that will matter materially. She'll come for what is right, I'm sure; and you'll be willing to pay that."

"Oh, yes; it doesn't matter. I'll be glad to give her a trial, anyway; and if she's all you crack her up to be I'll pay her _more_ than what's right. When can she come? Where does she live?"

"Well, she's going to live here in Dalton," evaded the doctor cautiously. "She's not here yet; but she and her mother are coming--er--next week, I believe. Better not count on her beginning work till the first, though, perhaps. That'll be next week Thursday. I should think they ought to be--er--settled by that time." The doctor drew a long breath, much after the fashion of a man who has been crossing a bit of particularly thin ice.

"All right. Send her along. The sooner the better," nodded Burke, the old listless weariness coming back to his eyes. "I certainly need--some one."

"Oh, well, I reckon you'll have--some one, now," caroled the doctor, so jubilantly that it brought a frown of mild wonder to Burke Denby's face.

Later, the doctor, still jubilant and confident, hurried down the Denby walk intent on finding the "modest little apartment" for Helen.

"Oh, well, I don't know!" he exulted to himself, wagging his head like a c.o.c.ksure boy. "This comic-opera-farce affair may not be so bad, after all. Anyhow, I've made my first exit--and haven't spilled anything yet.

Now for scene second!"

Finding a satisfactory little furnished apartment, not too far from the Denby home, proved to be no small task. But by sacrificing a little on the matter of distance, the doctor was finally enabled to engage one that he thought would answer.

"Only she'll have to ride back and forth, I'm afraid," he muttered to himself, as he started for the station to take his train. "Anyhow, I'm glad I didn't take that one on Dale Street. She'd meet too many ghosts of old memories on Dale Street."

Buying his paper at the newsstand in the station, the doctor himself encountered the ghost of a memory. But he could not place it until the woman behind the counter cried:--

"There! I thought I'd seen you before. You come two years ago to the Denby fun'ral, now, didn't ye? I tell ye it takes me ter remember faces." Then, as he still frowned perplexedly, she explained: "Don't ye remember? My name's Cobb. I used ter live--" But the doctor had turned away impatiently. He remembered now. This was the woman who didn't "think much of old Denby" herself.

On Monday Helen Denby and her daughter went to Dalton. At Helen's urgent insistence the doctor refrained from accompanying them.

"I don't want you to be seen with us," Helen had protested.

"But why not?" he had argued rebelliously. "I thought I was a friend of your family for years."

"I know; but I--I just feel that I'd rather not have you with us. I prefer to go alone, please," she had begged. And perforce he had let her have her own way.

It was on a beautiful day in late September that Helen Denby and her daughter arrived at the Dalton station. Helen, fearful either that her features would be recognized, or that she would betray by word or look her knowledge of the place, and so bring an amazed question to Betty's lips, had drawn a heavy veil over her face. Betty, cheerily interested in everything she saw, kept up a running fire of comment.

"And so this is Dalton! What a funny little station--and for so big a place, too! It seemed to be big, as we came into it. Is Dalton a large town, mother?"

"Why, rather large. It used to be--that is, it must be a good deal over fifteen thousand now, I suppose," murmured the mother, speaking very unconcernedly.

"Then you've been here before?"

Helen, realizing that already she had made one mistake, suddenly became convinced that safety--and certainly tranquillity of mind--lay in telling the truth--to a certain extent.

"Oh, yes, I was here years ago. But the place is much changed, I fancy,"

she answered lightly. "Come, dear, we'll take a taxi. But first I want a paper. I want to look at the advertis.e.m.e.nts for a maid, and--"

She had almost reached the newsstand when, to Betty's surprise, she turned sharply about and walked the other way.

"Why, mother, I thought you said you wanted a paper," cried Betty, hurrying after her and plucking at her arm.

"But I didn't-- I don't-- I've changed my mind. I won't get it, after all, just now. I'd rather hurry right home."

She spoke rapidly, almost feverishly; and Betty noticed that she engaged the first cabby she saw, and seemed impatiently anxious to be off. What she did not see, however, was that twice her mother covertly glanced back at the newsstand, and that her face behind the veil was gray-white and terrified. And what Betty did not know was that, as the taxi started, her mother whispered frenziedly to herself:--

"That was--that was--Mrs. Cobb. She's older and grayer, but she's got Mrs. Cobb's eyes and nose. And the wart! I'd know that wart anywhere.

And to think how near I came to _speaking_ to her!"