"I mean, we had more before we came here, when my father had a clerkship; he had two hundred a year for that. And we were very comfortable. We had everything we could want. Father was always talking of beginning to lay by, but he hadn't begun. And then he gave the work up."
"Can you tell me why he gave it up?—on what account?"
Pattie shook her head.
"I never understood. He didn't exactly tell me why. Only that Mr. Peterson had turned against him, and had said unkind things —things that were not true. Poor father was miserable. I never saw him so unhappy. He said one day that Mr. Peterson believed him to have done something wrong—something he never could have done. And he said he and I must come away, and must forget our friends there. We meant to live quietly in the country; and I thought we should manage on what we had—if I could take in needlework. Neither of us ate a great deal."
"And out of that he meant to pay twenty pounds a year house rent—not to speak of taxes."
"Was that too much? But it does not matter now." Tears filled her eyes.
"My dear, you must not think me unkind to say all this; it is— it is necessary. I have to understand your affairs. Did your father seem anxious about your future—or plan anything for you?"
"Sometimes. Not much."
"Not even since his accident?"
"I would not let him. There was no need. I told him I should be taken care of. There was no need for him to worry himself."