"You look better," she remarked, as she returned the sick girl's smile;
"tell me, Bertha, was it from hunger that you fainted? I am your friend
and want to help you."
"Yes, it was. I haven't eaten since--what day is this?"
"Saturday; it is now about five o'clock."
"Then it was yesterday morning. I had a piece of bread about as large as
my palm."
"And nothing since?"
"Not a crumb."
Sara shuddered.
"Poor, poor girl! How did you come to such want?" tears of pity filling
her sweet eyes.
Bertha gazed at her wonderingly.
"How did you know me?" she asked. "What makes you care?"
"I know your name because you gave it when you first came out of your
faint, and how could I help caring? You are pretty near my own age, I
think."
"I'm twenty-two."
"Then you are a little the older. Bertha, have you a mother?"
She shook her head sadly.
"No, I haven't anybody; it would have been better, I say. What can a
girl do all alone in this great, wicked world?"
"Tell me about it, Bertha; perhaps I can help you."
No one could resist that tone; and Bertha, after one long look into the
sympathetic face, drew a sigh and began.
"We were always poor, but not to real want. Father had a small farm, and
we lived off from it till he died.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259