“Ma’am?” asked the waif, drowsily, sitting up and regarding his surroundings with surprise. “I—I—Where am I at?”
“At—home, my child,” answered Miss Lucy, with a gasp at her own daring.
CHAPTER II.
CONFLICTING IDEAS.
Towsley was now fully awake; and, what was better, he seemed to have lost his shyness during his nap.
“Um’m. Home. That’s where folks live that has ’em. This is yours, I s’pose. Well, I’m much obliged to you, ma’am, and I’ll be getting on, I guess. Must be dark out-doors, else you wouldn’t have the lamps lit, and I must have slept a good while. It was terrible warm and nice, and I couldn’t help it. I hope I haven’t done no harm, ma’am, and good-night.”
This was Miss Lucy’s opportunity; her last chance, as she realized. The waif had not at all comprehended her meaning when she spoke of “home,” and so she had not committed herself. Many thoughts surged through her troubled mind. She remembered that she was the last of an old, aristocratic family, which had always believed in its womenkind being domestic and not at all strong-minded. She had been inclined to think that other women, who instituted “homes,” or engaged in any sort of public charity, rather stepped beyond the limits of good breeding, and had felt herself superior to them.
Then there were the neighbors. It was an old-fashioned, handsome “square” on which her house stood, and everybody owned his or her home. It was the pride of these people that there was never a house to let. And, indeed, it was a charming locality. Each residence stood upon a double lot, which gave a pretty, open-air sort of appearance to the place; and since there were so few families which could live upon the block, yet remained there so long, each became thoroughly acquainted with the habits and circumstances of the others.