When Grace asked to see some more of her needlework, the old lady’s eyes brightened and she hurried into the next room, returning with two or three pieces of such elaborate and exquisite workmanship that the girls were newly astonished.
“How in the world did you ever learn to do it?” asked Betty.
“My mother taught me when I was a child,” returned the queer little person, evidently much pleased and flattered by their admiration. “My mother did wonderful work.”
“It couldn’t have been better than this,” protested Amy, at which the little old lady shook her head doubtfully, although she looked more proud and pleased than ever.
They spent a happy afternoon with their Old Maid of the Mountains, listening to her sprightly reminiscences of “the days when she was young.” But as the hours passed there seemed to be a good deal of sadness mixed with her mood and she fell frequently into long silences from which the girls found it difficult to arouse her.
They were worried about her, for she seemed to have grown even more feeble since they had last seen her and she had formed the habit of muttering to herself.
Once Betty heard her say, so softly that the Little Captain could hardly be sure she heard the words at all:
“The injustice of it, oh, the injustice of it!”
Betty wrinkled her pretty brows in a thoughtful expression and sighed, wishing she could do something to help.
“I don’t suppose anything can be done, after all,” she thought with another sigh. “The world is full of injustice.”