“My dear, dear child!” cried the good lady, recognizing the girl instantly and embracing her after a welcoming kiss.  “Where on earth have you come from?”

“From Beverly,” said Mary Louise with a smile, for in her depressed state of mind this warm greeting cheered her wonderfully.

“Come right in,” said Mrs. Conant, seizing the suit case.  “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes, indeed; hours ago.  And I’ve seen Mr. Conant at his office.  He—­he wanted me to talk to you.”

She spoke loudly, as she had been accustomed to do, but now Mrs. Conant wore on her ear an instrument similar in appearance to a small telephone receiver, and she seemed to hear quite distinctly through its mechanism.  Indeed, she pointed to it with an air of pride and said:  “I can hear a whisper, my dear!”

As Mary Louise was ushered into the cosy sitting room she looked for the piano-player and the owner of the merry laugh and cheery voice.  Near the center of the room was a wheeled chair in which sat a young girl of about her own age—­a rather pretty girl in spite of her thin frame and pallid countenance.  She was neatly dressed in figured dimity, with a bright ribbon at her throat.  A pair of expressive brown eyes regarded Mary Louise with questioning earnestness.  Over her lap lay a coverlet; her slender white fingers rested upon the broad arms of her chair.

“This,” said Mrs. Conant, “is my niece, Irene Macfarlane, who is living with us just now and is the life and joy of our formerly dull household.  You’ll have to love her, Mary Louise, because no one can help doing so.”

Mary Louise advanced to the chair and took one of the wan hands in her own.  A thrill of pity flooded her heart for the unfortunate girl, who instantly noted her expression and met it with a charmingly spontaneous smile.

“Don’t you dare think of me as a cripple!” she said warningly.  “I am not at all helpless and my really-truly friends quickly forget this ugly wheeled chair.  We’re to be friends, are we not?  And you’re going to stay, because I see your baggage.  Also I know all about you, Mary Louise Burrows, for Aunt Hannah never tires of singing your praises.”

This was said so naturally and with such absence of affectation that Mary Louise could not fail to respond to the words and smile.

“I’m glad to find you here, Irene,” she said, “and I don’t know yet whether I’m to stay or not.  That will depend on Mrs. Conant’s decision.”

“Then you’re to stay,” promptly decided the hospitable lady, who by turning her mechanical ear toward the speaker seemed able to hear her words clearly.

“But you don’t know all the complications yet,” confessed the girl.  “I’ve run away from school and—­and there are other things you must know before you decide.  Mr. Conant wasn’t at all enthusiastic over my coming here, I assure you, so I must tell you frankly the whole story of my adventures.”