Hertha rose too and stood beside him. "You can have your old room now," she said softly.
"That ain't my room no more, Sister," he answered. "I give that room to you. I'm doin' fine at Aunt Lucindy's. Don't you fret." And with a good-night he left them.
Hertha watched him until he was out of sight. "He's the dearest boy in the world," she whispered to herself. "The dearest." Then, with a heavy heart, she turned to go in.
"Don't go to bed yet," Ellen called. "You can't be sleepy. Come, honey, sit here and talk."
"What about?" Hertha took her place by Ellen's side.
"What about? Why, about everything that's happened. I haven't heard yet of a thing you've been doing."
"I haven't succeeded at anything."
"I'd rather decide about that."
And so looking out into the starlight, haltingly at first, Hertha told the story of her eight months' absence. Ellen was all questions, interested to learn about New York, full of curiosity regarding the factory and the school, anxious to hear each detail of the many happenings. Her enthusiasm warmed the narrator and before she was through Hertha had given a full account of her city life.
"How wonderful!" Ellen said when it was finished.