"I'll put it away, where it won't tell nothin'."
"My aunt pays you for my board," Rotha went on, "and she expects that you will make me comfortable."
"What does she pay for your board?" said Mrs. Purcell, lifting up her head and flashing her black eyes at Rotha.
"I do not know what. I did not read her letter. You must know."
"She don't pay nothin' for you!" said the woman scornfully. "That's Mis' Busby! She's a good Christian, and that's the way she does. She'll go to church, and say her prayers regular, and be a very holy woman; but she won't pay nobody nothin' if she can help it; and she thinks us'll do it, sooner 'n lose the place, and she can put you off on us for nothin'—don't ye see? So much savin' to her, and she can put the money in the collection. I don't believe in bein' no Christian! Us wouldn't do the like o' that, and us aint no Christians; and I like our kind better 'n her kind."
Rotha stood petrified.
"You must be mistaken," she said at length. "My aunt may not have mentioned it, but it is of course that she pays you for your time and trouble, as well as for what I cost you."
"You don't cost her nothin'," said Mrs. Purcell. "That's all she cares for. Us knows Mis' Busby. Maybe you don't."
The last words were scornful. Rotha hardly heeded them, the facts of the case had cut her so deep. "Can it be possible!" she exclaimed in a stupefied way. Mrs. Purcell glanced at her.
"You didn't know?"