This wasn't at all as she expected to find the shut-in! Instead of gloom, and tears, and the weakness of age, here were displayed all the opposite emotions and qualities. The woman who was forgotten did not appear to be an object of pity at all. She merely seemed out of step with the times. "I'm sure you're very welcome, deary," said the old nurse. "Draw up the little rocker yonder. I always keep it for young company," and Mary Boyle, who had had no young company up here for ten or a dozen years, spoke as though the appearance of a youthful face and form was of daily occurrence. "You see," spoke Helen, more confidently, "we are neighbors on this top floor." "Neighbors; air we?" "I live up here, too. The family have tucked me away out of sight." "Hush!" said the little old woman. "We shouldn't criticise our bethers. No, no! And this is a very cheerful par-r-rt of the house, so it is." "But it must be awful," exclaimed Helen, "to have to stay in it all the time!" "I don't have to stay in it all the time," replied the nurse, quickly. "No, ma'am. I hear you in the night going downstairs and walking in the corridor," Helen said, softly. The wrinkled old face blushed very prettily, and Mary Boyle looked at her visitor doubtfully. "Sure, 'tis such a comfort for an old body like me," she said, at last, "to make believe." "Make believe?" cried Helen, with a smile. "Why, _I'm_ not old, and I love to make believe." "Ah, yis! But there is a differ bechune the make-believes of the young and the make-believes of the old. _You_ are playin' you're grown up, or dramin' of what's comin' to you in th' future--sure, I know! I've had them drames, too, in me day. "But with old folks 'tis different. We do be har-r-rking back instead of lookin' for'ard. And with me, it's thinkin' of the babies I've held in me ar-r-rms, and rocked on me knee, and walked the flure wid when they was ailin'--An' sure the babies of _this_ house was always ailin', poor little things." "They were a great trouble to you, then?" asked Helen, softly. "Trouble, is it?" cried Mary Boyle, her eyes shining again. "Sure, how could a blessid infant be a trouble? 'Tis a means of grace they be to the hear-r-rt--I nade no preacher to tell me that, deary. I found thim so. And they loved me and was happy wid me," she added, cheerfully. "The folks below think me a little quare in me head," she confided to her visitor. "But they don't understand. To walk up and down the nursery corridor late at night relaves the ache here," and she put her little, mitted hand upon her heart. "Ye see, I trod that path so often--so often----" Her voice trailed off and she fell silent, gazing into the glow of the fire in the stove. But there was a smile on her lips. The past was no time to weep over. This cheerful body saw only the bright spots in her long, long life.