"Yes, of course," she responded, thoughtfully adjusting her gloves, "it is a matter of business, a matter of bread and butter with me. I must make every edge cut." She was silent for a moment. Presently she looked up quickly and keenly, adding in a thin voice: "If one writes for the public one must write what is of interest. One can't afford to stand on small proprieties. I can't, at least: I'm poor."
Moreton had ready no response. He felt an impulse toward putting his hand into his pocket to give her some money; but of course he did not do it. Never before had a look conveyed to him so sudden a discovery of the hard lines of the life of a woman who is thrown upon her own resources for earning a livelihood. It suggested to him a phase of human struggle hitherto quite shut out of his imagination, however familiar to Americans.
"Well, good-by," she presently said, with an almost cheerful smile. "I wish I could stay here always: this is pretty near my ideal of what a home should be." She cast a slow glance around her, letting her eyes linger on the picturesque old mansion and its embowering trees. Moreton fancied that her face betrayed a feeling of weariness and failure, as if her enthusiasm had suddenly vanished.
"Good-by, Miss Crabb, I wish you great success," he responded, cordially taking her hand. It was the best he could do.
"Thank you," she quickly replied. "I am determined to deserve success, at least; but it is a long way off, I sometimes fear." She turned to go to the waiting carriage, but faced him again and added: "This has been a most charming experience to me. What a sweet, restful life it must be living here. I almost envy—I almost covet Mrs. Ransom's lot. I have had such a hard——," but she did not finish the sentence. "Good-by," she repeated, and went away.
Moreton felt a pang of sympathy for this poor girl, though he had no very definite idea of what her struggles, her hopes and her failures might be. It was enough for him to know that she was good and honest and earnest, and that she felt the hardship of some galling limitations.
"Will she ever come to any thing? Is there really any chance for a person like her in this country?" he inquired of Miss Noble a little later, as he sat by her side on a rustic seat under some trees by the river.
"She may make a hit, as it is termed," was the answer. "Some of them do, and then, if she will make the most of it, she may get to where life is easier; but at best she can not hope for much."
"It seems queer and pitiful to me," he said, after a moment of thoughtfulness, "that so good and kind a girl as she evidently is should have to do such things. Her situation has deeply touched me."
"That is because you haven't been used to it. Young ladies probably do not report for the press in England," replied Cordelia. "It is a very common thing for them to do it here."