"Won't your aunt miss you terribly?" said Aunt Emmy gravely.
Clorinda flushed. There was a note in Aunt Emmy's voice that disturbed her.
"Oh, yes, I suppose she will," she answered hurriedly. "But she'll get used to it very soon. And I will be home every Saturday night, you know. I'm dreadfully tired of being poor, Aunt Emmy, and now that I have a chance to earn something for myself I mean to take it. I can help Aunt Mary, too. I'm to get four dollars a week."
"I think she would rather have your companionship than a part of your salary, Clorinda," said Aunt Emmy. "But of course you must decide for yourself, dear. It is hard to be poor. I know it. I am poor."
"You poor!" said Clorinda, kissing her. "Why, you are the richest woman I know, Aunt Emmy—rich in love and goodness and contentment."
"And so are you, dearie ... rich in youth and health and happiness and ambition. Aren't they all worth while?"
"Of course they are," laughed Clorinda. "Only, unfortunately, Christmas gifts can't be coined out of them."
"Did you ever try?" asked Aunt Emmy. "Think out that question, too, in your thinking out, Clorinda."
"Well, I must say bye-bye and run home. I feel cheered up—you always cheer people up, Aunt Emmy. How grey it is outdoors. I do hope we'll have snow soon. Wouldn't it be jolly to have a white Christmas? We always have such faded brown Decembers."
Clorinda lived just across the road from Aunt Emmy in a tiny white house behind some huge willows. But Aunt Mary lived there too—the only relative Clorinda had, for Aunt Emmy wasn't really her aunt at all. Clorinda had always lived with Aunt Mary ever since she could remember.