The questioning was becoming more and more difficult for Ellen. When she answered it was with a touch of impatience. “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.” “He deserted you?” “Yes.” Moira felt the need of some apology, induced by Ellen’s uneasiness, but the very fact that the information was unsatisfactory made her perversely eager to stay, although the little room oppressed her. “I suppose you think I’m awfully curious, Ellen,” she said, with a short laugh. “And very inconsiderate to come and talk to you about these things at this time of night. But it seems so strange that you’ve been here ever since I can remember, and I’ve never heard about them--I suppose I thought you didn’t have an early life. You’re so cheerful, one doesn’t imagine you’ve had sorrows.” “People forget, ma’am. You can’t stay sad always.” “Isn’t it funny,” Moira broke in, “that I’ve got the same name your daughter had?” “Ye-es--I guess it is.” Ellen’s forced laugh and strained expression, and the tongue-tied moment that followed, were as hard for Moira as for the speaker. The silence lengthened. The older woman twisted in her uncomfortable seat on the bed. She obviously did not want to be looked at nor to look at the girl. Why, thought Moira, should she make all this fuss over old memories? What harm was in them? Ellen was not naturally shy--she could be voluble enough at times, and quite intelligent. “And we were just about the same age, weren’t we?” “No, oh, no,” burst out the other, and stopped suddenly. “But the letter is dated so near my birthday,” said Moira, a little brusquely, “and speaks of your baby’s christening. We’d have to be.” “Bu-but--my little girl was christened very late.” “She was christened about the time I was, by the same name, and in the same house? Why, it’s really a romantic idea, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Ellen, “that was how it was. Your--your mother liked the name too.” Moira felt a wave of compassion for the lonely old woman. There seemed to be nothing left to do but to go. She rose as if to do so, and then that impulse of sympathy caused her to sit down beside the other on the bed. She spoke very gently. “Ellen, I’m sorry, I’ve been opening an old wound, haven’t I? I can see that it hurts you. You understand why I am so interested--because of the name? That’s natural, isn’t it? But I’m glad to have learned about it. I shall think of you so differently from now on.” “Yes, Miss Moira, thank you.” The girl’s closeness to her and sympathy made Ellen’s voice tremble. She looked down at the letter which she had been rolling and twisting in her fingers, and following her glance, Moira realized that her own curiosity was not appeased at all. The mystery was as much a mystery as ever. “Why, you’re destroying your letter,” she said with a laugh, and took it from her and straightened it out. “You must have been fond of Miss McCoy,” she added gently. “Was she your friend?” “Yes.” “Was she sick, in the hospital?”