"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
being useful when nobody cares or seems to be helped by what you do. I
know I am ugly and not clever, but I love beautiful people and,
beautiful things."
Unconsciously her glance traveled from her listener's face to the small
piano in the corner of the room. "And it never seemed to me that
things, were divided quite fairly in this world, but now that I know
about the Camp Fire, Girls I am ever so much happier."
"Camp Fire Girls?" Betty queried. "Do sit down, child, I don't wish you
to leave me, and please don't say horrid things about yourself, for it
isn't polite and you never can tell how things are going to turn out.
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