"Come right in an' set down," said Mrs. Gray cheerfully, leading the
way; "awful tryin' weather we're havin', ain't it? An' the mud--my, it's
somethin' fierce! The men-folks track it in so, there's no keepin' it
swept up, an' there's so many of us here! But there's nothin' like a
large family for keepin' things hummin' just the same, now, is there?"
Mrs. Gray had had scant time to prepare her mind either for her
unexpected visitor or the object of her visit; but her mother-wit was
ready, for all that; one glance at the slight, black-robed little
figure, and the thin white face, with its tired, dark-ringed eyes, was
enough for her. Here was need of help; and therefore help of some sort
she must certainly give. "Now, then," she went on quickly, "you look
just plum tuckered out; set down an' rest a spell, an' tell me what I
can do for you."

"My name is Sylvia Cary--Mrs. Mortimer Cary, I mean." She shivered,
paused, and went on. "I live in New York--that is, I always have--I'm
never going to any more, if I can help it. My husband died two months
ago, my baby--just before that. I've felt so--so--tired ever since, I
just had to get away somewhere--away from the noise, and the hurry, and
the crowds of people I know. I was in Hamstead once, ten years ago, and I
remembered it, and came back. I want most dreadfully to stay--could you
possibly make room for me here?"

"Oh, you poor lamb! I'd do anything I could for you--but this ain't the
sort of home you've been used to--" began Mrs. Gray; but she was
interrupted.

"No, no, of course it isn't! Don't you understand--I can't bear what I've
been used to another minute! And I'll honestly try not to be a bit of
trouble if you'll only let me stay!"