"Can you make all this out?" she said drearily. "I shall never be able to understand legal terms."
Joan picked up a letter and read it through. "There's your small life interest under grandpapa Ogden's will, and then there'll be your pension, Mother, but it's very little, I'm afraid; we shall obviously have to leave this house."
Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "I can't do that," she said, with an unexpected note of firmness in her voice. "Where could I go and pay less rent than I do here? Only thirty-five pounds a year."
"But you see, dear, there are other expenses, servants and light and coal." Joan spoke patiently. "And then the rates and taxes; a tiny flat in London would cost so much less to run."
"How can you suggest London to me now, after all I went through there with my James's illness?" Her lips began to tremble. "I should never be able to face the noise and the dirt and the fearful climate, with my heart as it is. You're cruel, Joan."
"But, Mother, we have to face things as they are."
"I can't," said Mrs. Ogden faintly. "I'm too ill."
Joan sighed. "You must, darling; you can't stay here, you haven't got the money, we none of us have now. It'll be all right, truly it will, if you'll let me help to straighten things out."
A sly, stubborn expression came over Mrs. Ogden's face; she wiped the tears from her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. "Tell me exactly what I have got," she asked quietly.
Joan told her.