“I don’t know, Jane,” said Florence, despondently.
“But you can’t walk about the streets.”
“A trusty friend is going to call for me at eight o’clock; when he comes admit him.”
“It is a—a young gentleman?”
“You wouldn’t call him such. He is a boy, a poor boy; but I think he is a true friend. He says he will find me a comfortable room somewhere, where I can settle down and look for work.”
“Are you going to work for a living, Miss Florence?” asked Jane, horrified.
“I must, Jane.”
“It’s a great shame—you, a lady born.”
“No, Jane, I do not look upon it in that light. I shall be happier for having my mind and my hands occupied.”
“What work will you do?”