“And that would account for his not writing,” she said.
“If he is ill, it may go on a long time. Some illnesses last for weeks. He would want me with him, but he might be too ill to send for me. Poor father!”
I did not quite know what to say to this.
“So I have been thinking,” she resumed,—“thinking what to do—if he does not write soon, I mean.”
“I think you will have to stay here for the present,” I said.
“But I am only in the way here,” Maimie said abruptly, and tears sprang again to her eyes. “Uncle and Cherry and the boys are very kind; but I am not wanted.”
The leaving out of my name was marked.
“I hope we are all kind to you,” I said. “But that is hardly the question, Maimie. Where else can you go, if you do not stay with us? We are willing to keep you; and you must be willing to stay.”
“I am not willing,” the girl said; and there was another red flush. “I hate to be a burden. Aunt Marion, isn’t there anything I could do? I thought there were clerkships for girls sometimes. Couldn’t Uncle Robert hear of one for me?”
I tried to explain to her how much would be required; how little she was fitted for such work, not to speak of being too young; and how great was the competition for work in London.