"Course I am," she said, getting up. "Why shouldn't I be? I haven't a care in the world."
"You don't say so!" said William Rives. "I was under the impression that your circumstances—"
"My circumstances?" said Miss Lydia. "Bless you! I haven't any. Father didn't leave much of anything. I had $2000, but Cousin Robinson invested it and lost it. He felt so badly, I was just distressed about him."
"He should have been prosecuted!" Mr. Rives said, angrily.
Miss Lydia shook her head in horrified protest, but she beamed at him from under her black frizette, grateful for his sympathy.
"I remember," he said, thoughtfully, "that you were always light-hearted. I recall your once telling me that you began to sing as soon as you got up in the morning."
"Oh yes," Miss Lydia said, simply. "I always sing the morning hymn. You know the morning hymn, William?
"'Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily course of duty run—'"
William nodded. "Vocal exercises (if in tune and not too loud) are always cheerful," he said.
Gossiping thus of simple things, they walked back to Lydia's house and sat down in her parlor. There William told her, with a sort of whimper, that his health was bad. "I sent for Willy King—he is so young, he ought not to charge the full fee. I remember him as a very impudent boy," Mr. Rives said, growing red at some memory of William's youth; "however, he seems a respectable young man."