“We have lamps—indoors,” said the girl, “and Aunt Delia keeps boarders.”
“Oh, you help with the housework too?” said Cora. “I should think——” then she checked herself. Why should she say what she thought—just then?
Perhaps it was the unmistakable kindness shown so plainly in the manner of the motor girls, that convinced the two little berry-pickers that the visitors would be friends—if they might. At any rate, both girls dropped the vines they were overhauling, and stood straight up, with evident stiffness of their young muscles.
“But we are not going to do this all our lives,” declared the older girl. “Aunt Delia has made enough out of us.”
“Have you no parents?” ventured Cora.
“No, we’re orphans,” replied the girl, and, as she spoke the word “orphans,” the ring of sadness touched the hearts of the older girls. Cora instantly decided to know more about the girls. Their youthful faces were already serious with cares, and they each assumed that aggressive manner peculiar to those who have been oppressed. They seemed, as they looked up, and squarely faced Cora, like girls capable of better work than that in which they were engaged, and they gave the impression of belonging to the distinctive middle class—those “who have not had a chance.”
“Can’t you come over in the shade and rest awhile?” asked Cora. “You must have picked almost enough for to-day.”
“Oh, to-day won’t count, anyway,” said the younger girl, with hidden meaning.
“Nellie!” called her sister, in angry tones. “What are you talking about!”
“Well, I’m not afraid to tell,” she replied.