It was a short drive, and Helen and her daughter were soon in the apartment the doctor had found for them. To Helen it looked like a haven of refuge, indeed. Her near encounter with Mrs. Cobb at the station had somewhat unnerved her. But with four friendly walls to protect her, and with no eyes but her daughter's in sight, Helen drew a long breath of relief, and threw off her veil, hat, and coat.

"Oh, isn't this dear!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair, and looking admiringly about the pretty rooms. "And just think--this is home, our home! Oh, dearie, we're going to be happy here, I'm sure."

"Of course we are! And it is lovely here." The words were all right, but voice and eyes showed a trace of uneasiness.

"Why, dearie, _don't_ you like it?" asked the girl's mother anxiously.

"Yes, oh, yes; I like it all--_here_. It's only that I was thinking, all of a sudden, about that Mr. Denby. I was wondering if I should like it there--with him."

"I think you will, dear."

"But it'll all be so new and--and different from what I've been used to.

Don't you see?"

"Of course, my dear; but that's the way we grow--by encountering things new and different, you see. But come, we've got lots of things new and different right here that we haven't even seen yet. I'm going hunting for a wardrobe," finished the mother lightly, springing to her feet and picking up her hat and coat.

It was a pretty little apartment of five rooms up one flight, convenient, and tastefully furnished.

"I don't think even Burke could find fault with this," thought Helen, a bit wistfully, as her eyes lingered on the soft colorings and harmonious blendings of rugs and hangings. Aloud she said:--

"Dear me! I feel just like a little girl with a new doll-house, don't you?"

"Yes; and when our trunks come, and we get our photographs and things out, it will be lovely, won't it?"

Helen, at one of the windows, gave a sudden exclamation.

"Why, Betty, from this window we can see--"

"See what?" cried Betty, hurrying to the window, as her mother's words came to an abrupt halt.

"The city, dear, so much of it, and--and all those beautiful houses over there," stammered Helen. "See that church with the big dome, and the tall spire next it; and all those trees--that must be a park," she hurried on, pointing out anything and everything but the one big old colonial house with its tall pillars that stood out so beautifully fine and clear against the green of a wide lawn on the opposite hill.

"Oh-h! what a lovely view!" exclaimed Betty, at her side. "Why, I hadn't noticed it at all before, but we're on a hill ourselves, aren't we?"

"Yes, dear,--West Hill. That's what I think they used to call it."

Helen was not at the window now. She had turned back into the room with almost an indifferent air. But afterwards, when Betty was busy elsewhere, she went again to the window and stood for long minutes motionless, her eyes on the big old house on the opposite hill. It was ablaze, now, for the last rays of the sun had set every window gorgeously aflame. And not until it stood again gray and cold in the gathering dusk did Helen turn back into the room; and then it was with tear-wet eyes and a long sigh.

Getting settled was much the same thing that getting settled is always apt to be. There were the same first sc.r.a.ppy, unsatisfying meals, the same slow-emerging order from seemingly hopeless confusion, the same shifting of one's belongings from shelf to drawer and back again. In this case, however, there were only the trunks and their contents to be disposed of, and the getting settled was, after all, a short matter.

Much to Betty's disapproval, her mother early announced her intention of doing without a maid.

"Oh, but, mother, dear, you shouldn't. Besides, I thought you said you were going to have one."

"I thought at first I would, but I've changed my mind. There will be just us two, and I'd rather have a stout woman come twice a week for the laundry and cleaning. With you gone all day I shall need something--to take up my mind."

Betty said more, much more; but to no purpose. Her mother was still obdurate. It was then that into Betty's mind came a shrewd suspicion, but she did not give it voice. When evening came, however, she did ask some questions. It was the night before she was to go for the first time to take up her work.

"Mother, how did we happen to come up here, to Dalton?"

"Happen to come up--here?" Helen was taken by surprise. She was fencing for time.

"Yes. What made us come here?"

"Why, I--I wanted to be near to make a home for you, of course, while you were at work."

"But why am I going to work?"

Helen stirred restlessly.

"Why, my dear, I've told you. I think every girl should have something whereby she could earn her bread, if it were necessary. And when this chance came, through Dr. Gleason, I thought it was just the thing for you to do."

Indifferently Betty asked two or three other questions--immaterial, irrelevant questions that led her quite away from the matter in hand.

Then, as if still casually, she uttered the one question that had been the purpose of the whole talk.

"Mother, have we very much--money?"

"Why, no, dear, not so very much. But I wouldn't worry about the money."

The answer had come promptly and with a rea.s.suring smile. But Betty tossed both the promptness and the rea.s.suring smile into the limbo of disdain. Betty had her answer. She was convinced now. Her mother was poor--very poor. That was why there was to be no maid. That was why she herself was to go as secretary to this Mr. Denby the next day. Mother, poor, dear mother, was poor! As if _now_ she cared whether she liked the place or not! As if she would not be glad to work her fingers off for mother!

CHAPTER XXI

THE PLAY BEGINS

"I shall take you over, myself," said Helen to her daughter as they rose from the breakfast table that first day of October. "And I shall show you carefully just how to come back this afternoon; but I'm afraid I shall have to let you come back alone, dear. In the first place, I shouldn't know when you were ready; and in the second place, I shouldn't want to go and wait for you."

"Of course not!" cried Betty. "As if I'd let you--and you don't even have to go with me. I can find out by asking."

"No, I shall go with you." Betty noticed that her mother's cheeks were very pink and her eyes very bright. "Don't forget the doctor's letter; and remember, dear, just be--be your own dear sweet self."

"Why, mother, you're--_crying_!" exclaimed the dismayed Betty.

"Crying? Not a bit of it!" The head came proudly erect.

"But does it mean so much to you that I--that I--that he--likes me?"

asked Betty softly.

The next moment, alarmed and amazed, she found her mother's convulsive arms about her, her mother's trembling voice in her ears.

"It'll mean all the world to me, Betty--oh, Betty, my baby!"

"Why, mother!" exclaimed the girl, aghast and shaken.

But already her mother had drawn herself up, and was laughing through her tears.