They wandered to
Kathleen and the Wild Irish Girls' Society; they wandered to her other
schoolfellows; they wandered to the hardship of having to take care of
the shop when she wished to be otherwise employed; and finally they
settled themselves on Ruth Craven. She could not help wondering what
Ruth would do--whether she would continue to be a valuable aid to the
queen of the new society, or whether she would give them up altogether.
"I'd almost like her not to stay with us," thought Susy; "for then
perhaps Kathleen would make me her Prime Minister. I'd like that.
Kathleen is the dearest, truest, greatest lady I ever came across. She
doesn't think anything of birth, nor of those sort of tiresome
distinctions; she thinks of you for what you are worth yourself. And she
is so splendid to look at, and has such a gallant sort of way. I do
admire her just!"
The shop-bell rang. Susy was out in a moment. A woman had called for a
penn'orth of paper and an envelope. She put down her penny on the
counter, and Susy supplied her from a special box.
"I was in such a taking," said the woman. "I just remembered at the last
moment that all the shops were shut. I don't know what I should have
done if I hadn't recalled that Mrs. Hopkins kept hers open until nine
o'clock. I am obliged to you, little girl. I have to send this letter to
my son in India, and I'd miss the mail if it wasn't posted to-night. You
couldn't now, I suppose, oblige me with a stamp.
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