Jessie forbore to remind Miss Perkins of her oft-uttered longing for a permanent lodger. She forbore even to protest against the insinuation that hitherto she had not helped. In her eagerness to keep Mildred, she would have endured more than this.
"O I'll do the room all right," she made answer cheerfully. And the moment she could escape, she fled to Mildred's retreat.
"You will stay always, won't you, Mildred?" she reiterated.
"'Always' means a great deal. I should like to stay for a time, at any rate."
"Only for a time! Not to live here!"
"It must depend, partly, on whether I can find any work to do. I couldn't be idle, Jessie. I think I should go out of my mind. You don't know what the feeling of loneliness is—not a person in the world belonging to me; not one relation nearer than a cousin of my father's, and he is a crusty old man, who never even writes. I have no real ties now, and it is so strange."
Jessie listened seriously. "I haven't ties either, I suppose. Ought I to care, Millie? I don't think I do, very much. There are so many nice people in the world. Of course aunt Barbara is a tie; but I am not so very fond of her. I am much more fond of other friends,—of you!"
"And of the Groates', for instance?"
"Yes," blushing, "I do like Mrs. Groates. And so will you when you get to know her. But what sort of work do you want to find?"
Mildred explained slowly. She could teach, she said, if only the simpler branches of teaching were required; but she would very much prefer dressmaking. No, she had never been a dressmaker. Her father had had a good post in a country bank, and he had toiled to the last. Mildred had never had to work for her living, as a matter of necessity. She had, however, always loved work, especially dressmaking. She knew herself to be very good at cutting out and fitting. She had always made her own dresses, and often those of her friends.