Two great tears slowly welled up and then ran down her cheeks: she put up her small right hand to rub them away, and he saw how the forefinger was seamed with needle marks.
"And now there are only me and Ollie," she added quietly.
"You are here with friends I suppose?"
"No, sir; we have no friends here. Father was on his way here when his illness came on—he bid me come here. I expected to find his people here, but no one even knows the name. I suppose they lived here long ago, and are all gone away now."
"Do you mean to tell me, child," said old Ralph half angrily, "that you and this boy are alone in the world?"
"Indeed we are—quite, quite alone," the girl answered, with that quiet sadness which was so like some one, if he could only remember who it was.
"But you have money?" he said, turning to look at her.
"Oh yes, I have a little money. When my father died; he had some money,—I do not know exactly how much—they took some to pay the doctor, and the bill at the hotel, and—for his funeral. Oh, I don't want to speak about it, sir!" and again the big tears rolled down, and the poor little hard-working hand went up to her face. But after a moment she went on again: "I am keeping all I have left very carefully. I work as hard as I can, and so does Ollie, though he can only run with messages, of course. I want to keep the little I have until winter."
"How long have you been here?" asked Ralph.
"I forget exactly. Oh, there's Ollie!"