“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Miss Rindy herself, feeling an emotion she did not want to show, but she laid aside her knitting and patted Ellen’s hand furtively. “Just tell me where you went after all that happened.”
“First to one and then to another, but artists aren’t usually very well off, though they do manage to have such jolly times. They were all just as kind and generous as could be, especially Mr. Barstow, one of Dad’s best friends. He had a long talk with me before he sailed for Europe, and said I was not to worry, that he would hunt up some of my relatives, for it was only right that they should know I was—homeless.”
“He was quite right,” said Miss Rindy, again picking up her knitting. “I was fond of your mother, and I should be ashamed to have her daughter dependent upon strangers. You don’t have to call yourself homeless any more, you understand, for here you are, and here you be as long as I have a roof over me and a crust to share. I own this house and I have a little income. It will be close cutting, but we sha’n’t starve, I reckon. As for clothes, they don’t take as much stuff as they used to, that’s one comfort. You’re how old, Ellen?”
“I am just fifteen.”
“Well, you’re not very big, and won’t need trains even when you are grown up, so I reckon we won’t have to lay out much on dry-goods. I must start you to school first thing, and between school hours you can be learning useful things. Can you sew?”
“A little; I used to help Mother sometimes.”
“That’s something. Can you cook?”
“I can make toast, and cocoa, and fudge.”
“Cake?”
“No, we bought cake when we wanted it. We had no real stove, you know.”