“Forty dollars.”
All at once Peggy felt an insane desire to laugh. The impulse was without doubt, purely nervous. For though there seemed to her a surprising discrepancy between the sum named and the despair for which it was responsible, the humorous aspect of the case was not the one which would naturally appeal to a disposition like Peggy’s. Desperately she fought against the impulse, coughed, bit her twitching lips, and finally acknowledged defeat in a little hysterical giggle. Lucy stared at her, too astonished to be angry.
“There!” Now that the mischief was done, Peggy felt serious enough to meet all the requirements of the case. “I’ve laughed and I’m glad of it. For it’s a joke. Forty dollars! A girl as bright as you are, ready to sell out for forty dollars. It’s enough to make anybody laugh.”
Lucy put her hand to her forehead. “But it was all I had,” she said rather piteously.
“All you had. But not all you can get. Why, I had a friend who went into a business office last winter. She’s earning forty dollars a month now, and they’ll raise her after she’s been with them a year. Forty dollars means a month’s work for a beginner. You’ve lost a month, and you talk as if everything had been lost.”
The rear door of the cottage opened, and a young man appeared, a distinctly unprepossessing young man, whose shabby clothing somehow suggested a corresponding shabbiness of soul. He stood irresolute for a moment, then turned and struck off across the fields, his shambling gait increasing the unfavorable impression that Peggy had instantly formed.
Lucy regarded her visitor with burning eyes.
“I didn’t mean to tell anybody,” she said. “I thought my pride wouldn’t let me, but what’s the use of my being proud? That was my brother, and he drinks. I guess you’d know it to look at him, wouldn’t you? It was he who stole my money. That’s the kind of people I belong to.”
Peggy got to her feet. She had an odd feeling that she could not do her subject justice sitting on a woodpile, with her feet dangling.
“Lucy Haines,” she said with a severity partly contradicted by the kindness of her eyes, “I’m ashamed of you. I can tell just by the little I know of you, what kind of ancestors you had, and you ought to be thankful for them every day you live. Think of all the sickly people in the world, that can’t more than half live at best, and you with your splendid, strong body. And think of the stupid ones, who try to learn and can’t, and you seeing through everything like a flash. I know what kind of people you belong to, Lucy Haines, and you ought to be proud and thankful, too.”