“Oh, she’s known for quite a while, but the trouble is she hasn’t a cent of money.”
“Phew!” whistled Laurie. “How come?”
“I guess she never did have any. That house belonged to her mother, and she died a long time ago and left a funny will that let Miss Comfort stay there until her sister died. She’s been getting along pretty well by making cakes and things and selling them. She makes the best cake in town, and every one buys of her. But I guess she’s never made more than enough money to just live on. I know that winter before last, when coal was so high, she shut up all the rooms except the kitchen and lived there with just the stove for warmth. And goodness knows when she’s had a new dress. I declare she’s worn that one she had on just now ever since I’ve been in Orstead, Laurie!”
“Gee, that’s tough luck for the old girl,” said Laurie. “Must be some place for her, though.”
“There’s only one place I know of,” said Polly sadly, “and that’s the poor-farm. Of course, she’ll be well taken care of, and they’ll let her go on making cake and selling it, but she hates it dreadfully.”
“I should think she might! At her age! Gee!”
“Mama and I thought of having her here, but there’s only the two rooms up-stairs, and while it would be all right for a while it wouldn’t do as a—a permanent arrangement.”
“But isn’t there any one else who could give her a home? Some one who has more room? What about the folks in her church?”
“Well, of course there’s been talk of helping her, and I’m certain quite a lot of folks will give money, but I don’t believe she’d take it, Laurie. And even if she got quite a lot, even a hundred dollars, it wouldn’t pay house-rent very long, would it?”
“A hundred dollars!” snorted Laurie. “Say, they must be a lot of pikers. Why—”