The little old lady swung wide her door with a gesture as grand as though she were welcoming her guests to a palace.
“Come in,” she said, adding with a sigh as they obeyed: “I wish I had some refreshments to offer you young ladies, but the fact is, I—have—nothing left in the house. I was on my way,” she added hastily, as though the girls might misconstrue her confession, “to lay in some more supplies when I met you.”
They stayed with their queer little hostess for the better part of an hour and before the time had passed, they had fallen hopelessly in love with her.
She was sweet and quaint and pathetically eager that they should enjoy themselves. The girls, growing more and more interested as they came to know her better, skillfully drew her out, leading her to talk about herself.
This she did with a frankness that was disarming.
“They call me the Old Maid of the Mountains—the good people around here,” she confessed, as though she took real pride in the title. “Sometimes they come to see me, although often they are too busy with their own affairs to bother about a little old woman. Although,” she added bravely, as though once more afraid that the girls might be led to pity her, “I am not often lonesome. I have my work, you see.”
“Work?” repeated Betty vaguely. Somehow it seemed impossible that this frail little creature was able to work.
“Yes,” returned the little old lady, interpreting her puzzled look, “I do needlework—a great deal of it. Though,” she added, with a sigh, “it is hard for me to do it lately. My eyes are not as good as they were. Take care of your eyes in your youth, my dears,” she finished, looking around at them earnestly. “And never, whatever you do, cry!”
The girls, rather amazed at this command, could find nothing to say. However, this made little difference, as the old lady, once started, seemed glad enough to have somebody to talk to.
She rambled on and on, while the girls listened eagerly. Suddenly, with a quick look at the clock, she started to her feet.