"I'll buck up, then. 'A full stummick maketh a wise 'ead and a kind 'eart'—Shakespeare."
Ere long she had finished her meal, and was ensconced in the arm-chair. Evarne drew up a footstool and sat down, resting against the old woman's knee. But she remained without speaking. Once or twice she half started upon her task, but the words died on her lips.
Philia at length broke the silence.
"Dearie, I'm almost old enough to be your grandmother, but for all that we're jist real pals, ain't we? Remember, pals can always trust each other, and nothin' ever makes any real difference between 'em."
Thus encouraged, Evarne took the plunge and told the story of her life. When she had finished, she asked pleadingly—
"You don't mind? You're not very disappointed in me, are you, Philia? I did care for him, really and truly I did."
Her eyes were downcast, the tone of her voice was full of anxiety. The old woman's response took the form of a query.
"What do yer expect me to say to yer?"
Evarne shook her head somewhat hopelessly.
"I don't know," she murmured.