"What is your name?" asked Flora, by way of changing the subject, for she was a little fearful she might be asked to explain why little sweet potatoes would not grow in her jar.
"My name is Ruth Rudd," was the answer. "What is yours?"
"Flora Hazeley."
"Is it? Well, I live just back of your house, on the next street. Good-bye. I guess I will see you some other time." And she hurried away.
"She is a real nice girl," Flora thought, as she turned away from the window; "I hope I can see her again."
She stood for an instant looking about the room. It was nicely furnished, but it looked neglected and untidy, and Flora, having been so long accustomed to the attractiveness and order of her aunt's house, felt home-sick. Her loneliness came over her in a great wave of feeling, and running through the kitchen, out of the door, went into the yard, which was a good-sized one, but so filled with rubbish and piles of boards, scarcely noticed through her tears, that she met with many a stumble before she reached the farther end. She wanted some quiet place in which to sit and think, as she used to do under the old peach tree at Brinton. She was sure she "could think of nothing in that house," and the best she could do was to seat herself on an old block at the very back of the yard. She felt she could think better out in the open air, under the sky, for she was a great lover of nature, and loved to look at the blue sky. The sun was under a cloud, but the air was warm and pleasant.
How different were her thoughts now from what they had been under the old peach tree! Then she had reveled in rose-colored dreams; now she was confronted by gray realities. Her thoughts went rapidly over her life since Aunt Bertha's death.
She had been here not quite a week, and she found it such a different place from the home she had so lately left, that she was almost unwilling to call it "home." But while she considered her present home not very desirable, she had given no thought to the inmates, whether or not they had found in her a very desirable addition to the circle.
She was young, and she soon wearied of her sombre thoughts, which could avail her nothing, and she glanced at the houses on each side of her own. There was a marked difference. It was not in the style of the building, for hers was the most attractive. It was, however, in the general appearance, and Flora felt she would like to begin at the topmost shingle and pull her home down to the ground. But the thought came to her that then she would have no home. She knew there was no room for her with Aunt Sarah, who was, no doubt, at this very moment enjoying her absence.
"No, indeed, I do not want to live with Aunt Sarah," she thought; and then began to wonder vaguely if she had not better go to work and try to make her present home a more congenial one.