You don't suppose
they all have homes, do you?--have some one who waits up for them at
night, some one who cares when they come in?"
Before I could answer she stopped her dusting and, head on the side
and hands on her hips, listened. "There's the iceman at the kitchen
door," she said, relievedly. "I'll have to go and let him in."
It is this I cannot understand, this unusual evasiveness on Mrs.
Mundy's part. She is the least mysterious of persons, is, indeed, as
open as the day, and it is unlike her to act as she has done. From
childhood I have known her. Up to the time of Aunt Matilda's
marriage to Mr. Chesmond she made my clothes, and for years, in all
times of domestic complications has been our dependence. When I
decided to live for a while in the house once owned by my
grandfather, I turned to her in confidence that she would care not
only for my material needs, but that from her I could get what no one
else could give me--an insight into scenes and situations commonly
concealed from surface sight.
Her knowledge of life is wide and varied.
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