Just then other voices were heard, and other people began to gather about the flower-seller, who from that time was kept busy until the train approached. As the cars moved away from the station, the young lady who had been so curious looked out of the window, and then said to her companions,—
"She has sold every bunch."
"What? Oh, that flower-girl! Why in the world were you so interested in her?" one of the girls asked wonderingly.
"Why? Did you look at her?"
"I can't say that I did, particularly. What was there peculiar about her?"
"Nothing. Only she didn't look like a poor child,—a common child, you know, who would sell things on the street. She was very prettily and neatly dressed, and she spoke just like—well, just like any well-brought-up little girl."
"Did she?" politely remarked her friend, in an absent way. She was not in the least interested in this flower-girl. Her thoughts were turning in a very different direction,—the direction of her spring shopping, a gay little party, and a dozen other kindred subjects.
In the mean time the little flower-seller, with a light basket and a lighter heart, was waiting for the down train. It was only a mile from Brookside to Riverview, an easy walk for a strong, sturdy girl of ten; but all the same, this strong, sturdy girl of ten preferred to ride, and you will see why presently. The down or out-going train from Boston passes the in-going train a short distance from Brookside, and she had only five minutes to wait for it. This five minutes was very happily employed in mentally counting up her sales, as she walked to and fro upon the platform. She had brought twenty bunches of arbutus in her basket, and she had sold every one. Twenty bunches at ten cents a bunch made two dollars. She gave a little hop, skip, and jump, as she thought of this sum.
Two dollars! Now, if she should go again this very afternoon to the Riverview woods and gather a new supply, she might come back to Brookside and be ready when the 5.30 train brought people home from the city. So many people drove down to the station then to meet their husbands or fathers or brothers,—ladies and children too. It would be just the very best hour of all to sell flowers. Yes, she would certainly do it. It was only half-past one. She would have ample time, and then perhaps she would double—Cling-a-ling-a-ling, went the electric announcement of the coming train, and pouf, pouf, pouf, comes the train down the line, and there is her father looking out for her from the engine cab. He nods and smiles to her, and in another minute she has been helped up, and is standing beside him.
"Well, Hope, how did the flowers go?"