"Do you know how old I am?" asked Meg.
"I've forgotten."
"I'm twelve years old." She got up from her chair and walked across the room and stood looking up at Aunt Matilda. "I'm an orphan too, and so is Robin," she said, "and we have to work. You give us a place to stay in, but—there are other things. We have no one, and we have to do things ourselves. And we are twelve and twelve is a good age for people who have to do things for themselves Is there anything in this house—or in the dairy—or on the farm—that would be worth wages—that I could do? I don't care how hard it is, if I can do it."
If Aunt Matilda had been a woman of sentiment, she might have been moved by the odd, unchildish tenseness and sternness of the little figure, and the straight, gazing eyes which looked up at her from under the thick black hair tumbling in short locks over the forehead. Twelve years old was very young to stand and stare the world in the face with such eyes. But she was not a woman of sentiment, and her life had been spent among people who knew their right to live could only be won by hard work, and who began the fight early. So she looked at the child without any emotion whatever.
"Do you suppose you could more than earn your
