Mrs. Kilpatrick had been kind, and had grown to be genuinely fond of her. Thus it was with a touch of sadness that she stopped Martha pushing the chair up and down the veranda this same autumn afternoon, and mentioned a subject which she had persistently ignored for three days.
"Martha, dear, let me speak with you," said Mrs. Kilpatrick, suddenly. "Bring up your chair," she added.
"The doctor has told me," continued Mrs. Kilpatrick, "that he thinks a sea voyage will be beneficial. He suggests that I spend the coming winter in some warm climate, preferably Italy, and I have decided to do so."
Although uncertain as to just how it affected her, Martha could not restrain her pleasure and excitement at the possible thought of going. She clasped her hands convulsively, her eyes lighted up with anticipation, and she cried gladly:
"Lovely! And am I to go, too?"
Mrs. Kilpatrick shook her head. "My dear child," she said sadly, "I am sorry, but I shall be unable to take you. My sister, who is in New York, is to accompany me," she explained. "I'm afraid I shall have to let you return home this week. Unless," she added, "you can get something else to do."
"I must. I will. To return home now would be to admit defeat. I'll never do that. And we're all so dreadfully poor. I haven't any right to impose myself on them, now that I've commenced to earn my own living."
"Perhaps the doctor can suggest another position for you, child," said Mrs. Kilpatrick.
"Perhaps. Anyway, I must make my own living," declared Martha, with conviction. "Other girls are doing it; I ought to be able to. I'll go to New York or Chicago or some other big city, and I'll work at—at something or other," she concluded, rather lamely.
Mrs. Kilpatrick smiled indulgently at her earnestness.