“That was after Miss Aldridge died,” she said, with a sigh.  “I had lived with her ever since I was a little girl.  I can hardly remember anything before that—­except—­some things, little things, which I would rather forget.”  And her face clouded again.  “She was a very old lady, who had been rich once, and poor after that.  She had kept a school before she had me; and after that, I was the school.  I had to do all the learning of a schoolful.  Do you see?”

“Ah,” said Max, “now I understand!  And didn’t she ever let you know who placed you with her?”

“She said it was my grandmother,” answered Carrie, doubtfully.

“This grandmother?  The one you call Granny?”

“I don’t know.  You see, Mrs. Higgs never turned up till about ten months ago, long after Miss Aldridge had died.  She died the Christmas before last.”

“And how did you get to the hotel?”

“I had to do something.  Miss Aldridge had only her annuity.  I had done everything for her, except the very hardest work, that she wouldn’t let me do; and when she died, suddenly, I had to find some way of living.  And somebody knew of the hotel.  So I went.”

“Where was it?”

“Oh, not so very far from here.  It was a dreadful place.  They treated me fairly well because I am quick at accounts, so I was useful.  But, oh, it wasn’t a place for a girl at all.”

“But why didn’t you get a better one?  Anything would have been better, surely, than coming here, to live like this!”

Max was earnest, impassioned even.  The girl smiled mournfully as she just caught his eyes for a moment, and then looked at the fire again.

“You don’t understand,” she said, simply.  “How should you?  I should have had no reference to give if I had wanted another situation.  The name of the place where I had been living would have been worse than none.”

“But there are lots of places where you could have gone, religious and philanthropic institutions I think they call themselves, where they would have listened to what you had to say, and done their best to help you.”

Carrie looked dubious.

“Are there?” said she.  “Well, there may be, of course.  But I think not.  Plenty of institutions of one sort and another there are, of course.  But those for women are generally for one class—­a class I don’t belong to.”

Max shuddered.  This matter-of-fact tone jarred upon him.  It was not immodest, but it revealed a mind accustomed to view the facts of life, not one nourished on pretty fancies, like those of his sisters.

“And even if,” she went on, “there were a home, an institution, a girl like me could go to and obtain employment, it wouldn’t be a life one would care for; it would be a sort of workhouse at the best, wouldn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t it be better than—­this?”

“I don’t even know that.  Granny’s fond of me in her way.  That’s the one thing no sort of institution can give you, the feeling that you belong to some one, that you’re not just a number.”