He was sitting, this summer morning, at his desk, in his shirt-sleeves,
reading a contract with twofold attention, once as a lawyer, once as a
builder. His door was open, and when someone knocked, he called out,
“Come in!” without turning his head. He expected to be spoken to, and
when he wasn’t, he looked up to see who could be there, waiting in
silence. And saw a most splendid young creature, tall, broad-shouldered,
with a healthy sunburned face of vivid colouring and severely perfect
features, eager, vigorous, yet full of a fine young dignity.
He rose at once and put on his coat.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, with his invariable politeness.
The girl’s brown face flushed, but she answered without hesitation.
“I’m Frances Defoe--Mrs. Defoe’s granddaughter, you know. My sister told
me how nice you’d been about--Grandma and the rent, so I thought perhaps
you’d be good enough to--oh, to give _me_ a little advice.”
“Please sit down,” he said cheerfully. “Now!”
“I want something to do, work of some sort. I heard that you were the
most progressive man in the village, so I thought you’d be the best one
to consult.”
He was pleased and embarrassed by the compliment, which he knew to be
merited.
“I don’t suppose,” she went on, in her clear, somewhat imperious voice,
“that there’s much opportunity here, is there?”
_He_ had found opportunities enough; still he answered, no, not many,
but that perhaps----
“Have you had any sort of experience?” he asked.
She said no; but that she’d studied a lot and was good at mathematics
and figures in general, and knew something of French and German.
“And I can type a little,” she added. “I used to do my essays and things
on a typewriter at college.”
“Fine!” said Mr. Petersen. “Now, let’s see where that would fit in.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, thinking in his
slow and prudent fashion.
At last he brought his glance back to the girl.
“If you’d care for it,” he remarked, “there’s an opening here. I need a
young lady to help me, to be in the office while I’m out, to answer the
telephone and so forth. It’s not much of a place--not more than eight
dollars a week to begin----”
He paused.
“If it would suit you----”
“Oh, yes!” she cried. “If you think I’d _do_!”
He smiled; he had sufficient imagination to comprehend the thrill of a
first job.
“Suppose we try then,” he said. “Let’s see.... This is Friday. Next
Monday at nine, Miss Defoe.”
She gave him a bright, a grateful smile, and got up, ready to go.
“I’m awfully glad to get such a chance,” she said. “I hope I’ll be
satisfactory.”
Mr. Petersen also rose.
“Mrs. Defoe quite well?” he enquired.
“Yes; at least she says so. She never complains.”
“And--I believe it was your sister I spoke to----”
“Minnie? Oh, she’s always well,” she answered, carelessly, and with
still another glowing smile, went off, elated.
Undoubtedly she was the handsome one--a striking figure. But somehow,
for him, at any rate, lacking the peculiar charm of her plainer sister;
that sober and matronly young creature in the little apron.
He felt a most Quixotic interest in both of the “young orphans.” He
would have done a very great deal for them. In fact, he _did_....