"Won't you tell me about that house," Betsey began promptly, afraid that she might miss obtaining the information that she desired, "that place there beyond the wall that looks as if a fire—"
The glass cup that Miss Miranda still carried dropped clattering to the floor and shivered into a dozen pieces with a startling crash.
"How very awkward of me," she exclaimed apologetically as she stooped to gather up the fragments. Betsey, however, as she helped to collect the broken glass, had a vague realization that the awkwardness may have lain in her own blunt question and followed her new friend upstairs with no effort to follow her inquiries farther.
"There is another shower coming up," Miss Miranda said, "so we will light the fire here and be very cozy until it passes. I have just baked some gingerbread and some one really must try it while it is still fresh."
It was certainly delightful to sit in a cushioned chair by the wide fireplace where a few sticks were burning, to drink cool milk and eat new gingerbread and to hear the rain drumming on the tiles outside the casement window. Miss Miranda, sitting opposite with her knitting, was asking questions about Elizabeth's father, about her work and her school and her plans for college, in which she seemed to be much interested. But she did not force the talk and
