“Yes. I want to get a chance to teach. I've been teaching, but I've lost my school.”
“And you want to get one here?”
“Yes. Do you know of any?”
“Why, see here,” said Francis. “It's none of my business, but I thought you hadn't been very well. Why don't you take a little vacation?”
“I can't,” returned Lois, in a desperate tone. “I've got to do something.”
“Why, won't your aunt—” He stopped short. The conviction that the stern old woman who had inherited the Maxwell property was too hard and close to support her little delicate orphan niece seized upon him. Lois' next words strengthened it.
“I lost my school,” she went on, still keeping her face turned toward the meadow and speaking fast. “Ida Starr got it away from me. Her father is school-committee-man, and he said he didn't think I was able to teach, just because he brought me home in his buggy one day when I was a little faint. I had a note from him that morning mother—that morning she came down here. I was just going to school, and I was a good deal better, when Mr. Starr's boy brought it. He said he thought it was better for me to take a little vacation. I knew what that meant. I knew Ida had wanted the school right along. I told Amanda I was coming down here. She tried to stop me, but I had money enough. Mr. Starr sent me what was owing to me, and I came. I thought I might just as well. I thought mother—Amanda was dreadfully scared, but I told her I was going to come. I can't go back to Green River; I haven't got money enough.” Lois's voice broke; she hid her face again.
“Oh, don't feel so,” cried Francis. “You don't want to go back to Green River.”
“Yes, I do. I want to get back. It's awful here, awful. I never knew anything so awful.”
Francis stared at her pityingly. “Why, you poor little girl, are you as homesick as that?” he said.