of what had once been an open fireplace, sad-irons were
heating side by side with simmering pots and a steaming tea-kettle.
There was a rich aroma of cooking in the air, somewhat tinctured by the
smell of melting wax, but in spite of that madly appetising to the
nostrils of a young woman made suddenly aware that she had not eaten for
some sixteen hours. The furnishings of the room were simple and
characteristic of country kitchens--including even the figure of the
sturdy woman placidly ironing white things on a board near the open
door.

She looked up quickly as Eleanor entered, stopped her humming, smote the
board vigorously with the iron and set the latter on a metal rest.

"Evening," she said pleasantly, resting her hands on her hips.

Eleanor stared dumbly, remembering that this was the woman who had
helped her to bed and had administered what had presumably been a second
sleeping draught.

"Thought I heard you moving around upstairs. How be you? Hungry? I've
got a bite ready."

"I'd like a drink of water, please," said Eleanor--"plain water," she
added with a significance that could not have been overlooked by a
guilty conscience.

But the woman seemed to sense no ulterior meaning. "I'll fetch it," she
said in a good-humoured voice, going to the sink.

While she was manipulating the pump, the girl moved nearer, frankly
taking stock of her. The dim impression retained from their meeting in
the early morning was merely emphasised by this second inspection; the
woman was built on generous lines--big-boned, heavy and apparently
immensely strong. A contented and easy-going humour shone from her
broad, coarsely featured countenance, oddly contending with a suggestion
of implacable obstinacy and tenacious purpose.

"Here you are," she said presently, extending a glass filmed with the
breath of the ice-cold liquid it contained.

"Thank you," said Eleanor; and drank thirstily. "Who are you?" she
demanded point blank, returning the glass.

"Mrs. Clover," said the woman as bluntly, if with a smiling mouth.

"Where am I?"

"Well"--the woman turned to the stove and busied herself with coffee-pot
and frying-pan while she talked--"this _was_ the Wreck Island House
oncet upon a time. I calculate it's that now, only it ain't run as a
hotel any more. It's been years since there was any summer folks come
here--place didn't pay, they said; guess that's why they shet it up and
how your pa come to buy it for a song."

"