Instinctively the landlady drew nearer to her, as she asked, “And your pa—where is he?”
“I never saw him,” said the girl, while her interrogator continued: “Never saw your pa, and your marm is dead—poor child, what is your name, and where did you come from?”
For a moment the stranger hesitated, and then thinking it better to tell the truth at once, she replied, “My name is ’Lena. I lived with my uncle a great many miles from here, but I wasn’t happy. They did not want me there, and I ran away. I am going to my cousin, but I’d rather not tell where, so you will please not ask me.”
There was something in her manner which silenced Aunt Betsey, who, erelong, proposed that she should go upstairs and lie down on a nice little bed, where she would be more quiet. But ’Lena refused, saying she should feel better soon.
“Mebby, then, you’d eat a mouffle or two. We’ve got some roasted pork, and Hetty’ll warm over the gravy;” but ’Lena’s stomach rebelled at the very thought, seeing which, the landlady went back to the kitchen, where she soon prepared a bowl of gruel, in spite of the discouraging remarks of her husband, who, being a little after the Old Hunks order, cautioned her “not to fuss too much, as gals that run away warn’t apt to be plagued with money”
Fortunately, Aunt Betsey’s heart covered a broader sphere, and the moment the stage was gone she closed the door to shut out the dust, dropped the green curtains, and drawing from the spare-room a large, stuffed chair, bade ’Lena “see if she couldn’t set up a minit.” But this was impossible, and all that long, sultry afternoon she lay upon the lounge, holding her aching head, which seemed well-nigh bursting with its weight of pain and thought. “Was it right for her to run away? Ought she not to have stayed and bravely met the worst? Suppose she were to die there alone, among strangers and without money, for her scanty purse was well-nigh drained.” These and similar reflections crowded upon her, until her brain grew wild and dizzy, and when at sunset the physician came again he was surprised to find how much her fever had increased.
“She ought not to lie here,” said he, as he saw how the loud shouts of the school-boys made her shudder. “Isn’t there some place where she can be more quiet?”
At the head of the stairs was a small room, containing a single bed and a window, which last looked out upon the garden and the graveyard beyond. Its furniture was of the plainest kind, it being reserved for more common travelers, and here the landlord said ’Lena must be taken. His wife would far rather have given her the front chamber, which was large, airy and light, but Uncle Tim Aldergrass said “No,” squealing out through his little peaked nose that “’twarn’t an atom likely he’d ever more’n half git his pay, anyway, and he warn’t a goin’ to give up the hull house.”
“How much more will it be if she has the best chamber,” asked Jerry, pulling at Uncle Tim’s coattail and leading him aside. “How much will it be, ’cause if ’taint too much, she shan’t stay in that eight by nine pen.”
“A dollar a week, and cheap at that,” muttered Uncle Tim, while Jerry, going out behind the wood-house, counted over his funds, sighing as he found them quite too small to meet the extra, dollar per week, should she long continue ill.