The Motor Girls on Waters Blue | Page 8

her mother's maid.
The foreign girl opened her dark brown eyes under the reviving stimulus of the aromatic spirits of ammonia, and she tried to speak. She seemed anxious to apologize for the trouble she had caused by fainting.
"That's all right, my dear," said Mrs. Kimball, soothingly. "Don't bother your poor head about it. You may stay here until you feel better."
"But, senora--" she protested, faintly.
"Hush!" begged Cora, touching the girl's hand gently with her own brown fingers. It was a pretty little hand, that of the lace seller--a hand not at all roughened by heavy work. Indeed, if she had made some of the dainty lace she was exhibiting, a piece of which was even now entangled about her, she needs must keep both hands unroughened.
"Oh, but Senorita, I--I am of ze ashamed to be so--to be--" Again her voice trailed off into that mere faintness, which was as weak as a whisper, yet unlike it.
"Now, not another word!" insisted Mrs. Kimball, in the tone of her daughter, and the Robinson twins well knew she meant to have her own good way. "You are in our hands, my dear child, and until you are able to leave them, you must do as we say. A little more of that ammonia, Cora, and then have Janet bring in some warm bouillon--not too hot. I believe the poor child is just weak from hunger," she whispered over the head of the lace seller, whose brown eyes were now veiled with the olive lids.
"Oh!" gasped Bess. "Hungry!"
"Hush! She'll hear you," cautioned Belle, for somehow she sensed the proudness of those who, though they toil hard for their daily bread, yet have even greater pride than those who might, if they wished, eat from golden dishes--the pride of the poor who are ashamed to have it known that they hunger--and there is no more pitiful pride.
The girl did not show signs of sensing anything of that which went on around her. Even when the second spoonful of ammonia had trickled through her trembling lips, she did not again open her eyes.
"Here is the bouillon," said Janet, as she came in with some in a dainty cup, on a servette.
"We must try to get her to take a little," said Mrs. Kimball, who had her arm under the girl's neck. A dusky flush in the olive cheeks told of the returning blood, under the whip of the biting ammonia.
Some few sips of the hot broth the girl was able to take, but she did not show much life, and, after a close look at her immobile countenance, and feeling of the cold and listless hands, Cora's mother said:
"I think we had better put her to bed, and have Dr. Blake look at her when he comes for Jack."
"Oh, Jack! I had almost forgotten about him!" exclaimed Cora. "We must go to the depot. It is almost time for his train."
"You have time enough to help me," said her mother, gently. "I think we must look after her, Cora, at least--"
"Oh, of course, Mother. We can't send her to the hospital, especially when she seems so refined. She is really--clean!" and Cora said the word with a true delight in its meaning. She had seen so many itinerant hawkers of lace who were not and neither were their wares.
"Oh, she has such a sweet, sweet face," murmured Belle, who was fair, and who had always longed to be dark.
"Is there a bed ready," Janet asked Mrs. Kimball.
"Yes, Madam, in the blue room." The Kimball family had a habit of distinguishing chambers by the color of the wall papers.
"That will do. We'll take her there. I think a little rest and food is all she needs. She looks as though she had walked far to-day."
A glance at the worn and dusty shoes confirmed this.
"Can we carry her, or shall I call John?" asked Cora, referring to the one man of all work, who kept the Kimball place in order.
"Oh, I think we can manage," said her mother. "She is not heavy."
It was not until Cora and her mother lifted the girl, that they realized what a frail burden she was in their arms.
"She's only a girl, yet she has the face of a woman, and with traces of a woman's troubles," whispered Belle, as Cora and Mrs. Kimball, preceded by Janet to hold aside the draperies, left the room.
"Yes. And I wonder what she meant by speaking of her father and Sea Horse Island in the way she did?" spoke Bess. "It sounds almost like a mystery!"
"Oh, you and your mysteries!" scoffed Belle. "You'd scent one, if an Italian organ grinder stopped in front of the house, looked up at your window, and played the Miserere."
"I might give him something to eat, anyhow," snapped Bess--that is, as