CHAPTER XIII
COMRADES
"Clara, what is the matter with you? You seem to be always fretting about something lately. Now I really must know. Is there anything wrong at your home?"
"No—o," comes in muffled tones from Clara. She has her head turned away, and takes care Betty shall not catch a glimpse of her face.
Betty steps quickly across the kitchen, and lays a hand on the girl's shoulder. It quivers under her touch; yes, Clara is certainly crying.
"Clara, you must tell me what it is. I can't have you going about the house with this miserable face—just when you were beginning to get on so much better, too."
"Beginning to get on better! O miss that's just where it is!" cries Clara, with a sudden burst of tears. "I can't get on better. I try and try, and make no end of good resolutions—cart-loads of them—and then I go and break them all again directly. Seems as though my head was no better than a sieve—I can't remember; it's of no use—Oh, Oh, Oh!"
"Clara, Clara, don't, there's a dear girl. And you have been doing better—ever so much; father was saying so to me only yesterday."