"Mrs. Starkweather!" gasped Mrs. Olstrom.

"Of course."

"Then, where have _you_ been these past three years?" demanded the housekeeper in wonder. "Mrs. Starkweather has been dead all of that time.

Mr. Willets Starkweather is a widower."

"Aunt Eunice dead?" cried Helen.

The news was a distinct shock to the girl. She forgot everything else for the moment. Her face told her story all too well, and the housekeeper could not doubt her longer.

"You're a relative, then?"

"Her--her niece, Helen Morrell," sobbed Helen. "Oh! I did not know--I did not know----"

"Never mind. You are ent.i.tled to hospitality and protection. Did you just arrive?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Your home is not near?"

"In Montana."

"My goodness! You cannot go back to-night, that is sure. But why did you not write?"

"I telegraphed I was coming."

"I never heard of it. Perhaps the message was not received. Gregson!"

"Yes, ma'am," replied the footman.

"You said something about a taxicab waiting outside with this young lady's luggage?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go and pay the man and have the baggage brought in----"

"I'll pay for it, ma'am," said Helen, hastily, trying to unlock her bag.

"That will be all right. I will settle it with Mr. Starkweather. Here is money, Gregson. Pay the fare and give the man a quarter for himself. Have the trunk brought into the bas.e.m.e.nt. I will attend to Miss--er----?"

"Morrell."

"Miss Morrell, myself," finished the housekeeper.

The footman withdrew. The housekeeper looked hard at Helen for several moments.

"So you came here expecting hospitality--in your uncle's house--and from your cousins?" she observed, jerkily. "Well!"

She got up and motioned Helen to take up her bag.

"Come. I have no orders regarding you. I shall give you one of the spare rooms. You are ent.i.tled to that much. No knowing when either Mr.

Starkweather or the young ladies will be at home," she said, grimly.

"I hope you won't put yourself out," observed Helen, politely.

"I am not likely to," returned Mrs. Olstrom. "It is you who will be more likely---- Well!" she finished, without making her meaning very plain.

This reception, to cap all that had gone before since she had arrived at the Grand Central Terminal, chilled Helen. The shock of discovering that her mother's sister was dead--and she and her father had not been informed of it--was no small one, either. She wished now that she had not come to the house at all.

"I would better have gone to a hotel until I found out how they felt toward me," thought the girl from the ranch.

Yet Helen was just. She began to tell herself that neither Mr.

Starkweather nor her cousins were proved guilty of the rudeness of her reception. The telegram might have gone astray. They might never have dreamed of her coming on from Sunset Ranch to pay them a visit.

The housekeeper began to warm toward her in manner, at least. She took her up another flight of stairs and to a very large and handsomely furnished chamber, although it was at the rear of the house, and right beside the stairs leading to the servants' quarters. At least, so Mrs. Olstrom said they were.

"You will not mind, Miss," she said, grimly. "You may hear the sound of walking in this hall. It is nothing. The foolish maids call it 'the ghost walk'; but it is only a sound. You're not superst.i.tious; are you?"

"I hope not!" exclaimed Helen.

"Well! I have had to send away one or two girls. The house is very old.

There are some queer stories about it. Well! What is a sound?"

"Very true, ma'am," agreed Helen, rather confused, but bound to be polite.

"Now, Miss, will you have some supper? Mr. Lawdor can get you some in the butler's pantry. He has a chafing dish there and often prepares late bites for his master."

"No, ma'am; I am not hungry," Helen declared. "I had dinner in the dining car at seven."

"Then I will leave you--unless you should wish something further?" said the housekeeper.

"Here is your bath," opening a door into the anteroom. "I will place a note upon Mr. Starkweather's desk saying that you are here. Will you need your trunk up to-night, Miss?"

"Oh, no, indeed," Helen declared. "I have a kimono here--and other things.

I'll be glad of the bath, though. One does get so dusty traveling."

She was unlocking her bag. For a moment she hesitated, half tempted to take the housekeeper into her confidence regarding her money. But the woman went directly to the door and bowed herself out with a stiff:

"Good-night, Miss."

"My! But this is a friendly place!" mused Helen, when she was left alone.

"And they seem to have so much confidence in strangers!"

Therefore, she went to the door into the hall, found there was a bolt upon it, and shot it home. Then she pulled the curtain across the keyhole before sitting down and counting all her money over again.

"They got _me_ doing it!" muttered Helen. "I shall be afraid of every person I meet in this man's town."

But by and by she hopped up, hid the wallet under her pillow (the bed was a big one with deep mattress and downy pillows) and then ran to let her bath run in the little room where Mrs. Olstrom had snapped on the electric light.