It was not Angelica’s disposition to enjoy martyrdom. She never felt sorry for herself; she didn’t now. It was work which must be done, and she was anxious to do it properly. She was in that state of intense fatigue when one craves more and more physical activity. She scrubbed all the stone stairs, mopped the corridor, went on working and working and thinking and thinking.
She came down-stairs at one o’clock and went out to buy something for lunch.
"What is there to do this afternoon?" she asked.
"Nothing," said Mrs. Kennedy. "I haven’t got half the work to do in this place that I had in the old one—only three washings."
"I know. Well, mommer, I suppose we’ll have to get some more money from somewhere. I’ll go out and look for a job, I guess."
She found one without much trouble. Her sort of job—unskilled, transitory, ill-paid—was plentiful.
"I’m starting in to-morrow morning," she told her mother, when she came home. "Now, if there’s any ink, I guess I’ll write to Eddie."
"Why?" asked her mother.
"Well, it seems he don’t know anything about—what happened, and I guess we’ll be married after all."
"You mean to say you’re still set on that, Angie?" cried her mother. "It’s wicked—downright wicked—to deceive a good man so."