“It can’t be here at home, because it takes so much money to have it warm and light; and besides, his friends wouldn’t feel free to come, and it would be lonely for him.”
“Alice, what are you muttering about?” called Mrs. Rawson.
“Nothing, mother; I’m only making a plan.”
“If I could get books and papers,” she went on, closing the door, and starting for the kitchen; “but Jack is too tired to read much.”
Suddenly a new thought struck her, and she stood in the middle of the kitchen like a statue.
“I wonder—I do wonder why a place couldn’t be fixed—a room somewhere! I believe people would help if they only thought how good it would be for boys. That would be splendid!” And she looked anything but a statue now, for she fairly beamed with delight at the thought.
“I don’t suppose I can do much alone,” she said later, as the plan grew more into shape; “but it’s for Jack, and that’ll help me talk to people, I’m sure, and at least I can try.”
She did try. Without troubling her mother with her plans,—for she knew she would be worried and think of a dozen objections to it,—in her delicate state of health,—Alice hurried through with her work, put on her things, and went to call first on Mr. Smith, a grocer. She happened to know that at the back of Mr. Smith’s store was a room opening on a side street, which he had formerly rented for a cobbler’s shop, but which was now empty.
Alice’s heart fluttered wildly a moment, when she stood before the grocer in his private office, where she was sent when she asked of the clerk an interview with Mr. Smith.
“You are Rawson’s daughter, I believe,” was Mr. Smith’s greeting.