[A pleasant-faced little lady in a queer, old-fashioned dress]
“I feel so sorry for her,” said Polly with a sigh.
“What’s the matter?” asked Laurie. “Who is she?”
“That’s Miss Comfort.” Polly seemed surprised that Laurie didn’t know it. “She lives on the next corner, in the little white house that faces the park. She makes most of our cakes and pies. Don’t you remember—”
“Of course,” agreed Laurie, “but that’s the first time I ever saw her, I guess. But why are you sorry for her?”
“Because she’s got to get out of that house, and she hasn’t any place to go. And she must be almost seventy years old, Laurie. Just think of it!”
“Well, but aren’t there any other houses in Orstead? Seems to me I saw one just the other day over on Washington Street that had a ‘To Rent’ sign in front.”
“Yes, but that’s the old Cummings house, and it has sixteen rooms and rents for goodness knows what! You see, Miss Comfort had the use of the house she was in as long as her sister lived. Her sister was married and lived out West somewhere; Ohio or Iowa, I think. Well, she died last December, and now some lawyer has written her that she must vacate on the first of next month.”
“Didn’t give her much time, and that’s a fact,” commented Laurie sympathetically.