Anne Lane's face grew pale with pain, and it seemed for a moment that she, too, would lose courage. But she was a brave girl, and love strengthened her.
"There, there, mother!" she said. "Don't cry! I guess we can make out some way. Couldn't we do with two rooms? I could sleep with you and Nell, and Frank could have a pillow out here on the sofa."
"I thought of that," the mother sobbed drearily. "But he said that the rooms go together."
The girl's breath came like that of some wild creature at bay.
"Then we must draw in our expenses somewhere. We must give up our seats in church, and I will do the washing."
"I meant to do the washing, dear," her mother said eagerly. "And perhaps I might get some work out of the shops. You know I have a good deal of time to spare."
Even as she spoke, a sharp cough broke through her words, and her face flushed painfully.
"No, mother, no!" the daughter said, resolutely holding back her tears. "You are not able to work. Just leave that to me. Washing makes round arms, and I find my elbows getting a little sharp. I can save money and bring the dimples back at the same time."
There was a knock at the door, and their laundress came in, a sober, sensible-looking Irishwoman.
"Good-evening, ma'am! Good-evening, miss! No, I won't sit down. I must go home and take my young ones off the street, and give 'em a bit of supper. I just stepped in to see if you want your washing done to-morrow."