Olive threw open the door and Zelda stepped into a sitting-room--the house had no hall--where a coal fire burned cozily in a grate. The room ran the length of the house; the woodwork was white; the floor was pine, stained a dull red and covered with rugs made of old carpet. A student lamp with a green shade stood on a table in the center of the room. There were magazines and books on the table, and shelves in the corners held other books. An elderly woman looked up from the paper she had been reading as the door opened. A cane lay on the floor beside her and told the story of the lines of pain in her face.
“Mother, this is Zelda Dameron. She has brought me home,” said Olive.
“She didn’t want me to at all, but I made her let me,” said Zelda, crossing the room and taking Mrs. Merriam’s hand.
The woman bent her eyes--they were blue like Olive’s--upon the girl with a grave questioning.
“You are Margaret’s daughter--you are Ezra Dameron’s daughter,” she said.
“Yes; and I didn’t know about you at all until I found Olive to-day. And I didn’t know that any Merriams anywhere lived in a house like this. Why, it’s a home!”
Olive had brought a chair for Zelda, and stood watching her mother anxiously.
“Please--I’m going--but tell me--that I may come back again.”
There was something so sincere and wistful in Zelda’s tone as she spoke, standing between the firelight and the lamplight; something, too, in the glance of appeal she gave the little room, that broke down the antagonism in Mrs. Merriam’s eyes. She put out her hand again.
“Yes; I hope you will come. We shall be glad to see you.”
“_Et vous?_” Zelda turned to Olive with a quick gesture. “You must say it, too!”
“Certainly--Cousin Zelda! Saturday or Sunday, always--in the afternoons.”
“Saturday--that’s three days to wait--please don’t forget! Good night!”
Olive followed Zelda to the steps, and saw the runabout turn in the narrow street and whirl away. She watched it until Zelda’s erect figure passed like a flash under the electric light at the corner and disappeared into the dark beyond.
“What miracle is this?” asked Mrs. Merriam of Olive. “Nothing short of a miracle would account for it.”
“I met her down at the school-house. She had lost her way and asked me how to find Jefferson Street. I called her by name,--she seemed to remember me, and then she insisted on bringing me home. She seemed rather pitiful; she said she was lonesome and wanted a friend.”