"It's me, dear," said Kathleen coming to her.
The Irish girl was dressed and had her hat and coat on. "I'm called on a case," she explained, "way up in the Bronx. It's pneumonia and I'm afraid I shan't be home for some days."
"Oh," Hertha cried, in real distress, "why must you go now? I want you myself."
"You're not sick, are you?"
"No, but I'm worried. I wanted to talk with you."
Kathleen sat down by the side of the bed. "I'm sorry that I've bothered you so, Hertha," she said in her pleasantest voice. "There's something in what the Major said to-night. You're young and it's not for me to push you into anything just because I think it's right. You ought to be your own judge. Perhaps you'll soon decide on a new trade and the factory will drop out of your life."
"Yes, Kathleen," Hertha said hesitating, "I am thinking of something new. I believe I'll study stenography."
"That's a good trade if you've the education, and I don't doubt you have. There's many in it, but not many like you."
"Mr. Brown has been looking up schools for me."
"Has he?"