“You may stay here and play a little while,” said Mary Erskine to Mary Bell.  “I am going to talk with your mother a little; but I shall be back again pretty soon.”

Mary Erskine accordingly went to the stoop where Mrs. Bell was sitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of Mrs. Bell, though rather behind than before her.  There was a railing along behind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush, covered with roses, upon the other side.

Mrs. Bell perceived from Mary Erskine’s air and manner that she had something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a very pleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for Mary Erskine to begin.

“Mrs. Bell,” said Mary.

“Well,” said Mrs. Bell.

The trouble was that Mary Erskine did not know exactly how to begin.

She paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said,

“Albert wants me to go and live with him.”

“Does he?” said Mrs. Bell.  “And where does he want you to go and live?”

“He is thinking of buying a farm,” said Mary Erskine.

“Where?” said Mrs. Bell.

“I believe the land is about a mile from Kater’s corner.”

Mrs. Bell was silent for a few minutes.  She was pondering the thought now for the first time fairly before her mind, that the little helpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many years ago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, begin to form her own independent plans of life.  She looked at little Mary Bell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do when Mary Erskine was gone.

After a short pause spent in reflections like these, Mrs. Bell resumed the conversation by saying,

“Well, Mary,—­and what do you think of the plan?”

“Why—­I don’t know,” said Mary Erskine, timidly and doubtfully.

“You are very young,” said Mrs. Bell.

“Yes,” said Mary Erskine, “I always was very young.  I was very young when my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, I was very young to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living.  And now I am very young, I know.  But then I am eighteen.”

“Are you eighteen?” asked Mrs. Bell.

“Yes,” said Mary Erskine, “I was eighteen the day before yesterday.”

“It is a lonesome place,—­out beyond Kater’s Corner,” said Mrs. Bell, after another pause.

“Yes,” said Mary Erskine, “but I am not afraid of lonesomeness.  I never cared about seeing a great many people.”

“And you will have to work very hard,” continued Mrs. Bell.

“I know that,” replied Mary; “but then I am not afraid of work any more than I am of lonesomeness.  I began to work when I was five years old, and I have worked ever since,—­and I like it.”

“Then, besides,” said Mrs. Bell, “I don’t know what I shall do with my Mary when you have gone away.  You have had the care of her ever since she was born.”