"I don't now. Ma died and I ran away."
"My mother died, too," she returned softly, "and then grandmama."
For a moment there was a pause. Then I said with a kind of stubborn pride, "I ran away."
The sadness passed from her and she turned on me in a glow of animation. "Oh, I should just love dearly to run away!" she exclaimed.
"You couldn't. You're a girl."
"I could, too, if I chose."
"Then why don't you choose?"
"Because of Aunt Mitty and Aunt Matoaca. They haven't anybody but me."
"I left my father," I replied proudly, "and I didn't care one single bit. That's the trouble with girls. They're always caring."
"Well, I'm not caring for you," she retorted with crushing effect, shaking back the soft cloud of hair on her shoulders.