“Very good,” returned Mrs. Conant.  “I think I can guess at most of the story, but you shall tell it in your own way.  Presently Irene is going out to inspect the roses; she does that every morning; so when she is out of the way we’ll have a nice talk together.”

“I’m going now,” said Irene, with a bright laugh at her dismissal.  “Mary Louise won’t be happy till everything is properly settled; nor will I, for I’m anxious to get acquainted with my new friend.  So here I go and when you’ve had your talk out just whistle for me, Mary Louise.”

She could propel the chair by means of rims attached to the wheels and, even as she spoke, began to roll herself out of the room.  Mary Louise sprang to assist her, but the girl waved her away with a little laugh.

“I’m an expert traveler,” she said, “and everyone lets me go and come as I please.  Indeed, I’m very independent, Mary Louise, as you will presently discover.”

Away she went, through the hall, out at the front door and along the broad porch, and when she had gone Mary Louise whispered softly into Mrs. Conant’s mechanical eardrum: 

“What is wrong with her?”

“A good many things,” was the reply, “although the brave child makes light of them all.  One leg is badly withered and the foot of the other is twisted out of shape.  She can stand on that foot to dress herself—­ which she insists on doing unaided—­but she cannot walk a step.  Irene has suffered a great deal, I think, and she’s a frail little body; but she has the sweetest temperament in the world and seems happy and content from morn till night.”

“It’s wonderful!” exclaimed Mary Louise.  “What caused her affliction?”

“It is the result of an illness she had when a baby.  Irene is sixteen and has never known what it is to be well and strong, yet she never resents her fate, but says she is grateful for the blessings she enjoys.  Her father died long ago and her mother about a year since; so, the child being an orphan, Peter and I have taken her to live with us.”

“That is very kind of you,” asserted Mary Louise with conviction.

“No; I fear it is pure selfishness,” returned the good woman, “for until she came to us the old home had been dreadfully dull—­the result, my dear, of your going away.  And now tell me your story, and all about yourself, for I’m anxious to hear what brought you to Dorfield.”

Mary Louise drew a chair close to that of Aunt Hannah Conant and confided to her all the worries and tribulations that had induced her to quit Miss Stearne’s school and seek shelter with her old friends the Conants.  Also, she related the episode of Detective O’Gorman and how she had first learned through him that her grandfather and her mother were not living in Dorfield.

“I’m dreadfully worried over Gran’pa Jim,” said she, “for those terrible agents of the Secret Service seem bent on catching him.  And he doesn’t wish to be caught.  If they arrested him, do you think they would put him in jail, Aunt Hannah?”