She had been out one afternoon on an errand, and when she brought in the tea her eyes were red and swollen. Helen was very busy that evening getting some letters written for the foreign mail, but after tea, when Joyce went out to the kitchen to fetch something, she came upon Peggy sitting on a low stool by the fire, her apron up to her eyes, and great sobs escaping her.
"Now what is the matter?" Joyce asked a little sharply. "Have you broken anything?"
Peggy rose from her seat, and looked at Joyce with tragic eyes.
"No 'm, 'tis a deep trouble of my own, and I shan't never—no never—get over it."
Joyce seated herself on the edge of the kitchen table, and prepared herself for a little entertainment. She was sincerely fond of Peggy, but she did not regard her little maid's personal experiences with such sympathetic interest as her sister did.
"Well, what is it, Peggy? Has any one died?"
"'Tis worse 'm. My friend for life has giv' me up."
"Oh dear, that is sad! Is that a friend in London?"
"No 'm. 'Tis Ellen at the farm."
"You haven't known her for very long, Peggy. But why has she given you up?"