Nell had been out-of-doors, hanging the week’s wash up to dry, in a cutting wind which rushed down from snow-covered mountain tops and howled through the valleys. Coming in, numbed and trembling from exposure to the bitter cold, she said, with a brave attempt at cheerfulness—
“There! the hanging-out is done for this week, and I hope by the time next Monday comes the weather will be warmer.”
“Perhaps you won’t be here then, so it won’t matter to you whether it is cold or not,” Mrs. Lorimer said, going on with her sewing, and never glancing at Nell, who turned very pale, and winced as if some one had struck her a blow.
She was only pale for a moment, though; then her colour came back with a rush, and she asked, in a tone which she vainly tried to keep steady—
“How soon do you wish me to go?”
Mrs. Lorimer looked up then, scanning the girl’s face with a cold gaze.
“You can suit yourself about that; I don’t mind whether it is this week or next. I’m not denying that you’ve worked hard, and done your best for us all round. But we have had heavy expenses since harvest, so even an extra mouth to feed is a consideration, and I’m bound to cut down expenses where I can.”
Nell drew a long breath and set her teeth hard, then turned away without a word. But there was hot revolt in her heart all the same, and a wild protest against the bitter injustice of Mrs. Lorimer’s treatment.
“Why won’t people be kind to me?” she moaned under her breath, as she scrubbed out the children’s bedroom with the hot soapsuds left over from washing, and a few salt tears blinded her eyes, then dropped on to the wet floor.
Her grandfather had gone away, leaving her to face the world as best she might. Mrs. Munson had been glad to get rid of her because of the expense of her board, and now Mrs. Lorimer, for whom she had toiled so hard, was simply telling her to go.