At the end, Esther glancing around at the girl beside her was surprised
to see a kind of mist over her gray eyes.

But Betty laughed as she got up to her feet and going over to her table
stooped to pick up the book she had thrown on the floor half an hour
before.

"I might have made my own fire if I had known that song," she said,
switching on the electric light under the rose-colored shade. For the
clouds outside had broken at last, the rain was pouring and the blue
room save for the firelight would have been in darkness.

Betty sat down, putting her feet under her and resting her chin on her
hands. "I wonder what it feels like to be useful?" she asked, evidently
questioning herself, for afterwards she turned toward her companion.
"You must have learned a great many things by being brought up at an
orphan asylum, how to care for, other people and all that, but I never
would have dreamed that poetry would have played any part in your
education."

Esther had turned and was about to leave the room, but now at Betty's
words, she looked at her strangely.

Her face had reddened again and because of the intensity of her feelings
her big hands were once more pressed nervously together.

"Why, no, I never learned anything at the asylum but work," she answered
slowly, "just dull, hateful, routine work; doing the same things over
again every day in the same way, cooking and washing dishes and
scrubbing. I suppose I was being useful, but there isn't much fun in