"I know you'll want something bright and wide awake. I don't believe you like doleful books any better than I do."
Lucy's demure face lightened, but she seemed to hesitate for a reply.
"I did like that kind," she said finally, "but now I don't know. Mis' Hemphill said I ought to read something sober, nowadays. There's a book about a girl that was took up because they thought she'd killed her father, and they tried to torment and torture her into telling."
"Good gracious! Such a book would be the death of you. Is she crazy? I'll pick you out something. Now, here's the loveliest story! It's about two merry, sensible girls who found themself obliged to earn their own living. They did not sit down and cry, but just went about it, as gay and jolly as you please, and they had lots of funny adventures, but conquered in the end. I know you'd like it."
Lucy looked at the volume wistfully.
"Do you think I ought to?" she whispered.
"Of course I do. Why not? Look it over, at least."
She took the book, dipped into it here and there, looked at the illustrations, then glanced up with a flushing cheek.
"I know I'd like it and, if you say so—"
"Certainly I say so. What's its number?"