“It was the look in her eyes; an eager, haunted look. She’s all right, I’d swear to that, and she’s in some sort of trouble that’s not all her own fault. Trouble,” she mused. “Part of our reason for being here in the world is that we may help others out of trouble. I—I guess I’m glad I did it.”
Of this last she could not be sure. She had sometimes been mistaken, had bestowed confidence and assistance on persons who were unworthy. Should this girl prove to be such a person, then she might be helping her to get away with some unlawful act. And she might lose her position, too.
“Oh well,” she sighed at last, “it’s done. I’ll lose my memory of it here among the books.” To one who is possessed of a real love for books, it is a simple task to forget all else in a room where there are thousands of them. So completely did Florence forget that she soon lost all consciousness of the role she was playing, and when a rough looking man with a seafaring roll to his walk came marching toward her she could do nothing but stare at him. And when he said, “Howdy Meg,” she only stared the harder.
“The train leaves at eleven thirty,” he said, twisting his well worn cap in his nervous fingers.
“The—the—” she hesitated. Then of a sudden the words of the girl came back to her.
“Oh! All right,” she said in as steady a tone as she could command.
“What say?” asked the man.
“I said ‘Oh, all right.’”
“Right it is, then,” he said and, turning about, disappeared behind a pile of books.
With her head in a whirl, the girl stood and stared after him.