"Don't believe any news those people brought you, Miss Davis," said
Hetty. "I am sure they were impostors."
She was longing to say, "Mark and I played a trick for fun," but did not
dare until she had first spoken to Mark.
"Why do you think so? Hetty, is it possible you are crying for me? I did
not think you cared so much about me, my dear."
"I am sorry, I am sorry," cried Hetty, bursting into a fresh fit of
crying; "I did not know you had a little brother, Miss Davis."
"I have, Hetty; next to my mother he is the dearest care of my life. I
could not have told you this but for your tears. My mother and I are
very poor, Hetty, and my uncle had lately taken my boy and promised to
put him forward in the world. He is rather a wilful lad, my poor
darling, and is very delicate besides. Now, it seems, by my uncle's
marriage and death he has lost all the prospect he had in life. And
worst of all he has run away. And my mother is so ill. It will kill
her."
Miss Davis bowed her pale worn face on her hands, and Hetty, young as
she was, seemed to feel the whole meaning of this poor woman's life, her
struggles to help others, her unselfish anxieties, her love of her
mother and brother hidden away under a quiet, grave exterior.
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