“Why, Lyd! It’s fifty miles if it’s a step!”
“It’s nearer seventy. Takes two hours on the train to the nearest station; and then you ride up the mountain a long, long way. But we could walk it.”
“And be tramps–regular tramps,” cried ’Phemie.
“Well, I’d rather be a tramp than a pauper,” declared the older sister, vigorously.
“But poor father!”
“That’s just it,” agreed Lydia. “Of course, we can do nothing of the kind. We cannot leave him while he is sick, nor can we take him out there to Hillcrest if he gets on his feet again—”
“Oh, Lyddy! don’t talk that way. He is going to be all right after a few days’ rest.”
“I do not think he will ever be well if he goes back to work in that hat factory. If we could only get him to Hillcrest.”
“And there we’d all starve to death in a hurry,” grumbled ’Phemie, punching the hard, little boarding-house pillow. “Oh, dear! what’s the use of talking? There is no way out!”
“There’s always a way out–if we think hard enough,” returned her sister.