"They didn't have no right to send
me out here."
"It ain't so worse," said Birdie indifferently. "You get enough to eat
and you keep warm and get away from rough-housin'; that's something."
"But I don't belong here!" protested Nance, hotly.
"Aw, forget it," advised Birdie, with a philosophical shrug of her
shapely shoulders. Birdie was not yet fifteen, but she had already
learned to take the course of least resistance. She was a pretty,
weak-faced girl, with a full, graceful figure and full red lips and
heavy-lidded eyes that always looked sleepy.
"I wouldn't keer so much if it wasn't fer Dan Lewis," Nance said
miserably. "He was inside Mr. Demry's room, an' never knowed a thing
about it 'til I hollered."
"Say, I believe you are gone on Dan!" said Birdie, lifting a
teasing finger.
"I ain't either!" said Nance indignantly, "but I ain't goin' to quit
tryin' 'til I git him out!"
In the bright airy dining-room where they went for breakfast, Nance sat
at a small table with five other girls and scornfully refused the glass
of milk they offered her as a substitute for the strong coffee to which
she was accustomed. She had about decided to starve herself to death, but
changed her mind when the griddle-cakes and syrup appeared.
In fact, she changed her mind about many things during those first days.
After a few acute attacks of homesickness, she began despite herself to
take a pioneer's delight in blazing a new trail. It was the first time
she had ever come into contact for more than a passing moment, with
decent surroundings and orderly living, and her surprises were endless.
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