“Olive was in her little settin' room back of the shop. She was pretty pale, and her eyes looked as if she hadn't been doin' much sleepin' lately. Likewise I noticed—and it give me a queer feelin' inside—that her trunk was standin', partly packed, in the corner.”
“The poor woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Phinney.
“Yes,” went on her husband. “Well, I handed over the letter and started to go, but she told me to set down and rest, 'cause I was so out of breath. To tell you the truth, I was crazy to find out what was in that envelope and, being as she'd give me the excuse, I set.
“She took the letter over to the lamp and looked at it for much as a minute, as if she was afraid to open it. But at last, and with her fingers shakin' like the palsy, she fetched a long breath and tore off the end of the envelope. It was a pretty long letter, and she read it through. I see her face gettin' whiter and whiter and, when she reached the bottom of the last page, the letter fell onto the floor. Down went her head on her arms, and she cried as if her heart would break. I never felt so sorry for anybody in my life.
“'Don't, Mrs. Edwards,' I says. 'Please don't. That cousin of yours is a darn ungrateful scamp, and I'd like to have my claws on his neck this minute.'
“She never even asked me how I knew about the cousin. She was too much upset for that.
“'Oh! oh!' she sobs. 'What SHALL I do? Where shall I go? I haven't got a friend in the world!'
“I couldn't stand that. I went acrost and laid my hand on her shoulder.
“'Mrs. Edwards,' says I, 'you mustn't say that. You've got lots of friends. I'm your friend. Mr. Hilton's your friend. Yes, and there's another, the best friend of all. If it weren't for him, you'd have been turned out into the street long before this.'”
Mrs. Phinney nodded. “I'm glad you told her!” she exclaimed. “She'd ought to know.”