For an instant the two girls stared. Then they seemed about to exchange a smile, but, at the last moment, they checked it. The tiny old lady's eyes were upon them. She was quaintly serious, silently expectant. She made one marvel that in that face the wrinkles showed no trace of experience, knowledge; they were simply little, soft, innocent creases. As for her glance, it had the trustfulness of ignorance and the candour of babyhood.
"I want to get something to do, because I need the money," she continued since, in their astonishment, they had not replied to her first question. "Of course I'm not strong and I couldn't do very much, but I can sew well; and in a house where there was a good many men folks, I could do all the mending. Do you know any place where they would like me to come?"
The young women did then exchange a smile, but it was a subtle tender smile, the edge of personal grief.
"Well, no, madame," hesitatingly said one of them at last; "I don't think I know any one."
A shade passed over the tiny old lady's face, a shadow of the wing of disappointment.
"Don't you?" she said, with a little struggle to be brave, in her voice.
Then the girl hastily continued—"But if you will give me your address, I may find some one, and if I do, I will surely let you know of it."
The tiny old lady dictated her address, bending over to watch the girl write on a visiting card with a little silver pencil. Then she said—
"I thank you very much." She bowed to them, smiling, and went on down the avenue.