“My dear!” she said, when the startled gray eyes–all a-flood with tears–were raised to her own. “My dear, tell me all about it–do! If I can’t help you, I will be your friend, and it will make you feel lots better to tell it all to somebody who sympathizes.”
“Bu-but you ca-can’t sympathize with me!” gasped the other, looking into Wyn’s steady, brown eyes and finding friendliness and commiseration there. “You–you see, you never knew the lack of anything good; you’re not poor.”
“No, I am not poor,” admitted Wyn.
“And I don’t want charity!” cried the strange girl quickly.
“I am not going to offer it to you. But I’d dearly love to be your friend,” Wyn said. “You know–you’re so pretty!” she added, impulsively.
The girl flushed charmingly again. “I–I guess I’m not very pretty in my old duds, and with my nose and eyes red from crying.”
But she was really one of those few persons who are not made ugly by crying. She had neither red eyes nor a red nose.
“Do tell me what troubles you,” urged Wyn, patting her firm, calloused hand.
Those hands were no soft, useless members–no, indeed! Pretty as she was, the stranger had evidently been in the habit of performing arduous manual labor.
“Where do you live, my dear?” asked Wyn, again, as her first question was not answered.