"Oh yes," said the girl, with a sweet, sad smile. "I am very lonely now, but"—and she hesitated, glancing at Laura's embroidered dress—"I fear I cannot offer you anything so nice as you are used to having. I am very poor."
"But see, I have enough for both of us," said Laura, showing her flask of wine and her oat-cakes; "and I have nice warm clothing, too, which a kind friend sent to you. But where is little Fritz?"
A look of such deep pain came in the girl's pale face that Laura was sorry she had asked.
"How did you know anything about my little Fritz?" responded the girl, in a low tone.
"I will explain very soon," replied Laura; "but first tell me your name—mine is Laura."
"And mine is Kathinka, or Kathie."
"Now we can get along nicely; but shall we not have more fire and some tea before I tell you my story?" said Laura.
"I have no tea, and since little Fritz has been gone I have not cared to eat," said Kathie, with the dulness of sorrow.
"Then I will make the fire burn better," said Laura, "and make tea, too, for I am sure the Motherkin packed some."
"But your hands are too fine and white—no, I will do it," said Kathie, more aroused; and she went out for a while, and came back with some sticks. Presently there was a good blaze, and Laura got out the tea and sugar and cakes, and set them down on the hearth, for there was no table. Laura was hungry, and glad to eat, and, after looking somewhat curiously at her, Kathie, too, joined in the simple repast.