"Oh—I can't help it!" she mourned. "I've kept up—I thought maybe I shouldn't have to go; but my eyes have given out, and I can't earn anything only by sewing—and I can't sew now! To think of me in the poorhouse!"
"I'll come and sing for you there!" cried the boy impulsively.
"Oh! you wouldn't—would you?" She clutched at the only straw of hope.
"Of course, I will! I'd be glad to!"
"You're awfully good!" She wiped her eyes.
"I didn't mean to entertain you with tears," she smiled. "Seems as if I might stop, but I can't." Her eyes were wet again.
A sudden light illumined the lad's face. He opened his lips, then shut them.
"How soon do you expect to go?" he asked.
"Some time the last of the week, the man thought." She swallowed hard. "He said he'd give me time to pick up my things—he was real good."
"I'll see you again before the last of the week," promised Doodles, putting out his hand.