“Poor child,” thought Mrs. Smith, “she looks half tired to death all the time. But I couldn’t have her coming to the front door, and I must have my clothes done properly!”
Fortunately, the cottages were closely set and along the shore. Two big bundles Greta lugged along, knowing that her mother would be satisfied to add another washing, and thinking to herself that it was all she could do herself, especially if she spent her birthday as she intended. From her window Mrs. Smith was watching her, again wishing that she had not spoken so sharply. Then she had a thought.
“Greta! Greta Klein!” she called, just as Greta was arranging the bundles in the boat. Greta looked up and saw Mrs. Smith waving at her. “Wait a minute, Greta.”
It was several minutes, while Greta stood at the home-made, funny little dock that ran out narrowly into the lake. Then Mrs. Smith came running down to her with a bundle in her hand. “I thought that you might like some sugar cookies to eat on the way home. I want you to eat them yourself, remember, and I’m going to ask you if you did!”
Greta smiled and looked surprised.
“And here is a book that I found in the cottage. A young cousin of mine left it here last summer. If you can’t read it,—though you speak such good English that I suppose you can,—you will find some pretty pictures through it. It’s a story of girls about your age.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Smith, very, very much. I can read it and I haven’t any books of my own! You are so kind!” Greta’s eyes were full of tears at the unexpected warmth in Mrs. Smith’s tones. She had not minded much being told to go to the back door. She ought to have thought of it herself.
A happier girl rowed the boat back. She had a book of her own. She would read it on her birthday. The only thing that troubled her was how to keep it from being found and destroyed. She would hide it in the barn this time, or perhaps she could get it into the attic, where the Bible was. They let that alone.
The sugar cookies were good and with them was an apple. The fruit on the Klein place was very limited now. Greta thought of saving it for her brother, but questions would be asked. She would do what Mrs. Smith told her to do. The book she could scarcely wait to open. Suppose something should happen to it before she read it! She was almost tempted to stop before taking home the clothes; but concealing the volume as well as she could, she lugged home the bundles from a rude dock nearer than the one by the willow.
Fortune favored her. Her mother and the children were out in the pasture. Something was the matter with the horse. It lay on the ground, she saw, but she flew to the attic with her treasure and tucked it under the ragged quilt and old comforter that covered the cot where she slept now. Even in the cold winter she often came here, for she was afraid of her father when he came home so intoxicated; and sometimes her mother would bring the smaller children to her there.