So, a day or two later, Bertha came. Sara would hardly have known her, and indeed the two seemed to have changed places,—Sara was the weakling now, Bertha the strong and rosy one.
"I have such a good place," she said, in answer to the former's questions; "Mrs. Searle is very kind to me. Of course she is exacting and fretful at times, but that is only because of her illness, and I can get along with it; but she has given me a pretty room, and allows me an hour or two for air and exercise every day. I am happier there than I have been since mother died."
"That is good!" said Sara.
"And only think," continued the pleased girl, "she is talking now of going to the seashore. You don't know how I long for a sight of the ocean! The only trouble is, she can't find a place quiet enough to suit her—she hates to go to a great hotel, or where there is a crowd."
Sara looked up with a sudden thought.
"Killamet would be quiet enough—how nice it would be if she'd take my house there!"
"Your house! Have you a house?"
"Yes, the children and I; it's not much of one—just a cottage, but perfectly comfortable in summer. If Mrs. Searle would send down some furniture, I think she could really make it cosey."
"I'll tell her about it" said Bertha, and did, with the result that the lady decided to take it for the next two months, at a fair rental.
This little excitement over, Sara had only herself and the children to think of, and in her weak physical condition these thoughts were far from pleasant.