"
"That would be unlucky, in one sense," said Alice; "but I
believe I know what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would
dream the world went very hard with you. I don't know anybody,
I think, lives in more independent comfort and plenty, and has
things more to her mind. I never come to the house that I am
not struck with the fine look of the farm, and all that
belongs to it."
"Yes," said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times;
"Mr. Van Brunt is a good farmer — very good — there's no doubt
about that."
"I wonder what _he'd_ do," said Miss Fortune, quickly and
sharply, as before, "if there warn't a head to manage for him!
— Oh, the farm's well enough, Miss Alice — tain't that; every
one knows where his own shoe pinches."
"I wish you'd let me into the secret, then, Miss Fortune; I'm
a cobbler by profession."
Miss Fortune's ill-humour was giving way, but something
disagreeable seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow
darkened.
"I say it's a poor kind of world, and I'm sick of it! One may
slave, and slave one's life out for other people, and what
thanks do you get? I'm sick of it."
"There's a little body up-stairs, or I'm much mistaken, who
will give you very sincere thanks for every kindness shown
her."
Miss Fortune tossed her head, and brushing the refuse beans
into her lap, she pushed back her chair with a jerk, to go to
the fire with them.
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