Presently the girls were seated close to Aunt Polly's rocking-chair. The room looked more cheerful now with the lamplight and the yellow glow from the stove, and both were conscious of a sense of hopefulness.
"Now—what can you do?" demanded Aunt Polly, whirling round in her chair so as to face them.
"We hadn't got so far as that when you came in," replied Hetty; "I suppose we must do what other people do in the same circumstances."
"What's that?"
"Teach something, or sew, I suppose."
"Sewing's slow starvation, in my opinion, unless you've got a machine, which you haven't, and not much better then. What do you know that you can teach?"
"Not much," replied Hetty, humbly, while Delia added hesitatingly, "We could teach children their letters, perhaps."
"I presume you could," responded Aunt Polly, dryly. "But, though you mayn't know it, perhaps, there are about fifty women in this town can do the same, and who mean to do it, what's more. And most of 'em have got the start of you in one way or another, so what's your chance worth? No, girls, sewing and teaching are played out. They are good things in their way, but every woman who's got her living to earn thinks of them the very first thing and of nothing else, and the market is always overstocked. My advice to you is, to think up something you can do better than other people—that's what gives folks a real chance! Now, what is there?"
"There isn't anything I can do better than other people," cried the dismayed Delia. "Nor Hetty either—except make gingerbread," she added, with a faint little laugh. "Hetty beats everybody at that, grandmother always said."
"Very well; make gingerbread then. That's your thing to do," said Aunt Polly.