Miette looked into Dorothy’s eyes with a strange appealing expression.
“I will do all I can for you,” answered Dorothy, dropping into the cushioned tete beside Miette.
“You know I lived with my aunt—that is, she was my father’s brother’s wife, not my real aunt,” explained Miette, with careful discrimination. “When I came to New York my uncle was at home, but he soon went away. Then my aunt was not so kind, and I—had to go to work!”
Miette said this as if she had disclosed some awful secret.
“What harm was it to go to work?” Dorothy could not help inquiring abruptly.
“Harm!” repeated Miette, “When my mother was not poor, and she sent me to my uncle to be educated? They must have used my money, and—and—Don’t you see?” asked Miette, vaguely.
“But why, then, did they send you to Glenwood?” asked Dorothy, still puzzled.
“Perhaps to—get rid of me,” answered Miette. “That is what I wanted to talk to you about. I have written two letters and received no answer. Now, Marie, the girl who worked in the store with me, has written that my aunt is no longer living in the brick house.”
“She may have moved—that would not have to mean that she has—gone away.”
“Oh, but I am sure,” replied Miette, still agitated. “First my uncle goes, now she is gone, and they have left me alone!”