On a green straw hat of the season’s mode, was a purple feather, which had plainly seen service in the rain. She wore a ragged feather boa and a rather soiled brown silk waist much worn under the arms and evidently originally built for a much fuller figure.
A black serge skirt of very narrow proportions seemed shrunk upon her, and was spotted and shiny. Low brown shoes and spats completed the costume.
“I suppose these awful garments are better than the uniform of the institution she fled from,” thought Beth. Then she asked aloud: “What did you think of doing when you ran away?”
Cynthia’s face blossomed into one of her unexpected smiles. “Just thinking of running away,” she said.
“But how did you propose to live?” asked the practical Beth.
“By drawing my breath—the same as usual,” and the strange girl went off into a spasm of laughter which Beth thought showed rather poor taste to say the least.
“But we all must do something besides breathing to live,” she said shortly.
“True,” said Cynthia. “Eat. And to eat we must have money, eh?”
“Yes,” said Beth, still with gravity.
“I intend to work,” said the older girl, composedly enough now.