"Perhaps Drusilla has friends she ain't told us about."
"No, she ain't. She told me one day she didn't have a friend or a relation in the world, and if she'd a had 'em they'd a been to see her."
"Oh, I don't know. That ain't no sign. Your friends ferget you when you're in an old ladies' home," said a voice bitterly.
"Well, I wonder who it can be! I wish she'd hurry, so's we could ask her."
"Poor Drusilla!" said a sweet-voiced little woman. "I hope some one's found her. It's awful to have no one in all the world."
"How long's Drusilla been here?"
"Let me see"—and an old lady put down her sewing. "I been here seven years, I was here not quite two years when Drusilla come. She's been the linen woman ever since."
"Yes," said a woman who showed signs of having seen better days. Her clothes still had a look of by-gone elegance and her wrinkled hands were still dainty and beautifully kept. "Drusilla's our only charity inmate."
The stout old lady in the corner emitted a sound between a snort and a groan.
"Charity inmate! What are we all but charity inmates!"