Nothing in the way of English papers or books were ever brought into the house, yet Greta saw both sometimes at the cottages where she took back or gathered the clothes. Her eyes devoured them while she waited, and if she edged near some table she could read a few lines. Once a woman asked her if she liked to read, and on the girl’s reply that she did, she handed her one of the newspapers. “We’ve read that. It’s several days old, for we have to get our papers by mail, but the news is fairly late.”
Greta was glad to get anything to read, whether the news was late or old. In the shelter of the willow, before she took out the clothes for which her mother was waiting, she read almost every word and put the paper in her hiding place, a hollow tree near by. But a storm came up that very night. Her hollow tree was felled, the paper blown out and destroyed! That was a calamity of the preceding summer.
But Greta was beginning to feel that she must rouse herself a little from the conditions at home. Her father’s drunkenness was growing unbearable. Always of a cruel disposition, with a feeling that he had a right to beat his wife or children as freely as he beat his horse, he was often dangerous, Greta thought. How long her mother would stand it was a question, yet she seemed to take it as a matter of course, though doing her share of the quarreling. The German Bible was a help in the worst of Greta’s troubles. Her great-grandmother must have been a good woman. But some time she would go away and then try to earn money to help her mother and the children.
Now Greta Klein was a pretty girl. Had she been dressed as well as Jean Gordon she might have looked not unlike the impulsive Jean. But her large, dark brown eyes had a sad look in them and her face was worn; for while the hard work she had been forced to do had given her a certain strength, there had been enough of it to amount to over-work, which is not good for growing girls. Her mother said that she would be sixteen on her next birthday and that would be on the fifteenth, for which Greta was having plans.
Again the rowboat made its way out into the lake. Again Greta took a look at the pile of lumber on the peninsula. Perhaps the boys would want their clothes washed, but she would not tell her mother about it. It would be terrible to go there for them.
Greta made her way to the cottage, where an energetic, keen-eyed woman answered her knocking. “After this please come to the back door, Greta. I always have the clothes there for you. And I see that I shall have to have them done every week for the children get so dirty. Please be careful with the colored clothes. Last week that red handkerchief ran into Buddy’s blouse and that will never do.”
“I will try to be careful, Mrs. Smith.”
Greta took the large bundle which Mrs. Smith gave her. It was too large to carry around. Why hadn’t she thought to go to the other houses first? “Are there any other families where you think Mother could get washing to do, Mrs. Smith?” she asked.
“Yes. Mrs. Bliss next door wants some one. They came day before yesterday. If you like you may leave the clothes on the back porch while you go to see her. I’ll keep an eye on them, of course.”
“Oh, thank you, I’ll hurry.”