She went back to the house with a dull expression of hopelessness in her eyes.
CHAPTER III.
So the days passed—the cold, wretched days. Esther was sewing diligently, making both sleeves for one arm, blundering on everything she undertook, until it exhausted her teacher’s patience. For some time she was less a help than a hindrance—yet she was sewing.
One evening she dropped her work and went out to meet her cousin John. She often met him when he came home. This time she was unusually anxious. He had been to mill.
“Well, you are back; we’ve missed you,” she said.
Mixed with her love for him was a big proportion of pity. He had such a hard, stupid kind of life and had never been appreciated.
“Hello, youngster!” he greeted her, with his stout, strident voice. “What’ll you give me for a letter—a two-pounder?”
“It depends on where it’s from.”
“Paris, France.”
“No? Really?”