True, she had some money laid aside on which she could draw, but that would soon be expended, and then what was to become of her?
“Shure, I won’t let you starve, Florence,” said the warm-hearted apple-woman.
“But, Mrs. O’Keefe, I can’t consent to live on you.”
“And why not? I’m well and strong, and I’m makin’ more money than I nade.”
“I couldn’t think of it, though I thank you for your kindness.”
“Shure, you might write a letter to your uncle, Florence.”
“He would expect me, in that case, to consent to a marriage with Curtis. You wouldn’t advise me to do that?”
“No; he’s a mane blackguard, and I’d say it to his face.”
Weeks rolled by, and Florence began to show the effects of hard work and confinement.
She grew pale and thin, and her face was habitually sad.