A dark shadow passed across the face of Becky.
“I was the tomboy, Jenny; but I’ve outgrown that name. I think I’m something a little nearer what a girl of my age should be now.”
“I beg your pardon for speaking so, Becky. I’ve never met you before; but I’ve always heard of you and your—your—”
“Capers, Jenny. Don’t be afraid. I don’t mind it a bit. Thank goodness, I’ve outgrown all that folly. But tell me, are you Silly York’s sister?”
“Yes. She’s number one, and I’m number two; then there’s Johnny, three, and four and five. They’re little tots, and don’t count for much yet. Silly works for Mrs. Thompson, and I work at the mill.”
“You work! At what mill?”
“The paper mill, sorting rags. It’s profitable business, too. Some weeks I make five or six dollars.”
What a strange meeting! A little cripple earning six dollars a week, and a great, strong, healthy girl, who never earned a cent. Becky could scarcely believe her ears.
“Why, Jenny York, you’re worth a dozen girls like me. I never earned a cent in my life. I wish I could, though.”
“It’s easy enough. Mr. Small wants some help; he told me so to-day. The work is not very clean; there’s plenty of dust to get down your throat, and up your nose, and into your ears. But it never gets into my eyes thick enough to prevent my seeing the wages every Saturday night.”