“Yes; that’s what I mean!” she cried eagerly. “I’ve thought it all out and have made up my mind about it. I don’t want to be considered in anything that has to do with papa’s property.”
“But, my dear child, you can’t—you can’t abandon your claims in any such fashion! It’s my duty—I owe it to my friend and client to see that his wishes are fulfilled. Why—”
“Well,” she persisted, “between all those wills you can’t tell what he wanted—only that I was a great problem to him. I caused him a great deal of unnecessary worry and heartache. I hope this isn’t going to cause you any trouble—” And she smiled in spite of herself at his consternation, as indicated by the twitching of his brows. And there was, she realized, something absurd to her cool statement to a hard-headed lawyer that she renounced claims whose validity he was in duty bound to support. The situation was too much for him; he must escape as quickly as possible from this young woman who brushed away a fairly tangible fortune as a waiter clears away bread crumbs.
“Really, Miss Farley—” he began; but, thinking of nothing further to say, he backed awkwardly into the hall.
She helped him into his coat and opened the street door. He hurried off without saying good-bye, clasping Timothy Farley’s wills tightly under his arm.
A light snow was falling; Nan stood on the steps and lifted her hot face to the fluttering flakes. She watched Thurston until he turned the corner and then went to the telephone.
In a moment she was connected with Mrs. Copeland at the farm. “I want a job,” she was saying in a cheerful tone; “yes, that’s it—a chance to work. You told me the other day you needed some one to look after your business at the market-house. I’m applying for the job. Oh, no! I’m not fooling; I want that place! Well, I want to see you, too; I’ll be out early in the morning!”
CHAPTER XXIII
IN TRUST
“Copeland Farm Products” in blue letters against a white background swung over Nan’s head on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings in the city market-house. On those days she left Mrs. Copeland’s farm at five o’clock with the day’s offerings and by six the stand was in order.
An endless, jostling throng surged by, and every sale she effected, every negotiation for the future delivery of an order, had all the joy of an adventure. Her immediate neighbors were a big-fisted German gardener and a black-eyed Italian girl who sold fruits and vegetables. When business lagged, the German chaffed her about her wares or condoled with her when some frugal marketer priced her butter, sniffed, and departed. Nan commanded a meager knowledge of Italian and flung a phrase at her dark-eyed neighbor now and then in the spirit of comradeship which the place encouraged. She liked her “job.” She assured herself that she had never had so much fun in all her life, and that never again would she eat the bread of idleness.