"I knew you were," said the other, with a nod of her head. "I could tell that right off by your face. Do you know what I said to myself? I said, 'That girl has got somebody at home awful sick.' That's what I said. Was I right?"
"Yes, indeed you were," said Marcella.
"I knew it"—another triumphant nod. "Now, you just tell me all about it. It'll do you good to talk it over with somebody. Here, I'll pretend I'm looking at shirtwaists, so that floor walker won't be coming down on you, and I'll be as hard to please as that other woman was, so's you can take your time. Who's sick—and what's the matter?"
Marcella told the whole story, choking back her sobs and forcing herself to speak calmly, having the fear of the floor walker before her eyes.
"And I can't afford to send Patty to the country—I can't—and I know she won't get better if she doesn't go," she concluded.
"Dear, dear, but that's too bad! Something must be done. Let me see—let me put on my thinking cap. What is your name?"
"Marcella Langley."
The older woman dropped the lingerie waist she was pretending to examine and stared at Marcella.
"You don't say! Look here, what was your mother's name before she was married?"
"Mary Carvell."