"You could not do it, Fleda."
"One can do anything!--with a strong enough motive."
"I'm afraid you'd soon be tired, Fleda."
"Not if I succeeded--not so tired as I am now."
"Poor Fleda! I dare say you are tired."
"It wasn't that I meant," said Fleda, slightly drawing her breath;--"I meant this feeling of everything going wrong, and uncle Orrin, and all--"
"But you are weary," said Hugh affectionately. "I see it in your face."
"Not so much body as mind, after all. Oh Hugh! this is the worst part of being poor!--the constant occupation of one's mind on a miserable succession of trifles. I am so weary sometimes!--If I only had a nice book to rest myself for a while and forget all these things--I would give so much for it!--"
"Dear Fleda! I wish you had!"
"That was one delight of being in New York--I forgot all about money from one end of it to the other--I put all that away;--and not having to think of meals till I came to eat them. You can't think how tired I get of ringing the changes on pork and flour and Indian meal and eggs and vegetables!--"