“I hope he will be good to her,” said Dollie, very earnestly.
“I wonder what father will do about that mortgage now,” was Marion’s only answer. “He can’t trade you off to settle it now, so it begins to look as if he’d have to raise the money.”
“Oh, there’s no hope for him now,” said Dollie, sighing. “They’ll be turned out surely, and have to live with Samantha.”
“But Samantha’s husband won’t have them,” was Marion’s prompt answer, “which means that they’ll be forced to go to the Poor Farm.”
The two girls stared at each other with expressions of horror. It was a terrible thought—they could hardly endure it.
Bert Jackson came in and found them both weeping bitterly. He had brought Marion the ten dollars which she loaned him on the night of his escape from the Poor Farm, and the money looked like a fortune to the poor girls in their destitute condition.
When Marion told him of the letter which she had written to Matt Jenkins poor Bert was so delighted that he nearly went into hysterics.
“I never dreamed that it would be such fun to be dead,” he said, gayly, “but now I can breathe easy. Matt won’t be trying to chase a deader. And I’ve got a job, too,” he said, delightedly. “Eight dollars a week as clerk in a grocery store!”
“We’ll come and buy our potatoes and other things of you,” laughed Dollie; “that is, if Marion gets a steady place to sing for those people, and as soon as I get real well I’ll keep house for both of you.”
“That would be glorious,” said Bert, “but I’m afraid it won’t work. There’s a young man whom I know who might object, Miss Dollie.”