Part 18 (1/2)

Lois took off her hat.

”That's better,” said Francis, approvingly. ”You're going to live right along here in Elliot with your aunt, aren't you?”

Lois looked up at him suddenly. She was very pale, and her eyes were full of terror.

”Why, what is the matter? What have I said?” he cried out, in bewilderment.

Lois bent over and hid her face; her back heaved with sobs.

Francis stared at her. ”Why, what is the matter?” he cried again.

”Have I done anything?” He hesitated. Then he put his hand on her little moist curly head. Lois' hair was not thick, but it curled softly. ”Why, you poor little girl,” said he; ”don't cry so;” and his voice was full of embarra.s.sed tenderness.

Lois sobbed harder.

”Now, see here,” said Francis. ”I haven't known you more than an hour, and I don't know what the matter is, and I don't know but you'll think I'm officious, but I'll do anything in the world to help you, if you'll only tell me.”

Lois shook off his hand and sat up. ”It isn't anything,” said she, catching her breath, and setting her tear-stained face defiantly ahead.

”Don't you feel well?”

Lois nodded vaguely, keeping her quivering mouth firmly set. They were both silent for a moment, then Lois spoke without looking at him.

”Do you know if there's any school here that I could get?” said she.

”A school?”

”Yes. I want to get a chance to teach. I've been teaching, but I've lost my school.”

”And you want to get one here?”

”Yes. Do you know of any?”

”Why, see here,” said Francis. ”It's none of my business, but I thought you hadn't been very well. Why don't you take a little vacation?”

”I can't,” returned Lois, in a desperate tone. ”I've got to do something.”

”Why, won't your aunt--” He stopped short. The conviction that the stern old woman who had inherited the Maxwell property was too hard and close to support her little delicate orphan niece seized upon him. Lois' next words strengthened it.

”I lost my school,” she went on, still keeping her face turned toward the meadow and speaking fast. ”Ida Starr got it away from me. Her father is school-committee-man, and he said he didn't think I was able to teach, just because he brought me home in his buggy one day when I was a little faint. I had a note from him that morning mother--that morning she came down here. I was just going to school, and I was a good deal better, when Mr. Starr's boy brought it. He said he thought it was better for me to take a little vacation. I knew what that meant. I knew Ida had wanted the school right along. I told Amanda I was coming down here. She tried to stop me, but I had money enough. Mr. Starr sent me what was owing to me, and I came. I thought I might just as well. I thought mother--Amanda was dreadfully scared, but I told her I was going to come. I can't go back to Green River; I haven't got money enough.” Lois's voice broke; she hid her face again.

”Oh, don't feel so,” cried Francis. ”You don't want to go back to Green River.”

”Yes, I do. I want to get back. It's awful here, awful. I never knew anything so awful.”

Francis stared at her pityingly. ”Why, you poor little girl, are you as homesick as that?” he said.

Lois only sobbed in answer.

”Look here!” said Francis--he leaned over her, and his voice sank to a whisper--”it's none of my business, but I think you'd better tell me; it won't go any further--isn't your aunt good to you? Doesn't she treat you well?”