"Ten weeks, to the first of July; I've been at work since—but I want to get away from here where I can breathe; if I don't I shall die."
There was a queer flutter in my voice. I could hear it. The woman noticed it.
"Ain't you well?"
"Oh, yes, I am, and want work—but away from here."
There must have been some passionate energy left in my voice at least, for the woman lifted her thick eyebrows over the rim of her spectacles.
"H'm—let's talk things over." She drew up a chair in front of me. "I won't light up yet, it's so hot. I guess we 'll get a tempest 'fore long."
She sat down, placing her hands on her knees and leaning forward to look more closely at my face. I seemed to see her through a fog, and passed my hand across my eyes to wipe it away.
"There 's no use beating 'round the bush when it comes to business," she said bluntly but kindly; "I 've got to ask you some pretty plain questions; the parties in this case are awful particular."
"Yes." I answered with effort. The fog was still before my eyes.
"You see what it says." She began to read the advertisement slowly: "'Wanted: A young girl of good parentage, strong, and country raised, for companion and assistant to an elderly Scotchwoman on a farm in Canada, Province of Quebec. Must have had a common school education. Apply at No. 8 V—— Court, New York City.' You say you 've been in St. Luke's?"