“I know, Lizette,” Olga answered, a quivering smile stirring for an instant the old hard line of her set lips. Then she turned away, forgetting to say good-night. When the door closed behind her, Lizette’s eyes were full of tears.
“O, it’s a shame—a shame!” she said aloud. “To think how happy she was only last night, and now—now she looks as she did a year ago before Elizabeth went to the camp. O, I wonder why that sister had to come back!”
Lizette lay awake long that night, her heart full of sympathy for her friend, and Olga, lying on her hard bed on the floor, did not sleep at all. She went out early to the market, and coming back, prepared breakfast, but when she called her sister, Sonia answered drowsily:
“I’m too tired to get up, Olga. Bring me some coffee and toast here, will you?”
Olga carried her a tray, and Sonia ate and drank and then turned over and went to sleep again, and Olga, having washed the dishes, went off to the school. All day she worked steadily, forcing back the thoughts that crowded continually into her mind; but when she turned homewards the dark thoughts swooped down upon her like a flock of ravens, blotting out all her happy hopes and joyous plans, for she knew—only too well she knew—what she had to expect if Sonia remained.
“Well, you’ve come at last!” was her sister’s greeting. “I hope you’ve brought something nice for supper. I’m nearly starved. And you didn’t leave half enough milk for the baby.”
“I left plenty for your dinner,” Olga answered, “and I thought you could get more milk for the baby if you wanted it.”
“Get more! How could I get it without money? And you didn’t leave me a penny,” Sonia complained.
Olga brought out a bottle of malted milk. “That will do for to-night, won’t it?” she said, trying to speak cheerfully.
“I don’t know anything about this stuff.” Sonia was reading the label with a scowl. “You’ll have to fix it; and do hurry, for she’s been fretting for an hour.”