“Mine are the brief and simple annals of the poor,” said Olive.
“That sounds like poetry. I don’t know any poetry. Tell me”—Zelda bent forward in her chair and dropped her voice to a whisper—“tell me, Cousin Olive, are you educated?”
Olive laughed aloud.
“I’m sorry to admit it, but I went to Drexel Institute, where they teach girls to be practical; I didn’t go for fun; I went for business. They teach the useful arts, and I learned, among other things, to be humble.”
“I don’t believe you learned humility. Maybe humility was,—what do they call it,—a snap course?”
“I’m not sure that I learned it,” said Olive.
“You must get over it if you did. Now, go on, and don’t let me interrupt you any more.”
“Then I came home and began to teach in the public schools what they call, as I told you, domestic science,—which means cooking.”
“Wonderful!”
“Not very. Nothing could be simpler. They’re trying it on to see how it goes; so there’s a certain responsibility in my work. It will mean a lot to the children of the poor if they can learn how to do things decently and in order; and if I don’t make my slum cooking go the powers will cut it off. I thought for a while about becoming a trained nurse, though mother protested against it. But I was cured of that. I went down to St. Luke’s Hospital to see if they would take me. The boss nurse, whatever they call her, looked me over and asked if I wanted to learn nursing because I had been disappointed in love! Think of it! It seems that many girls do go in for it when they’ve been disappointed. But that didn’t apply to me; so they refused to take me because I was so little. I suppose I am rather undersized,” said Olive, ruefully. “I should like to be a nurse. The girls look so stunning in their uniform. But that’s all there is about me. Mother is often ill and never very strong. We live alone here and don’t see many people and nothing ever happens.”