her have the excitement of living what you call a hole-and-corner
life than spend my days stitch--stitch--stitching--dust--dust--dusting,
as I used to have to do with Miss Aldridge, as I should have to do if I
went away from here."

"Well, but there are other things you could do," pleaded Max, with vague
thoughts of setting his own sisters to work to find this erratic child
of the riverside some more seemly mode of life than her present one.

"What other things?"

"Why, you could--you could teach in a school or in a family."

"No, I couldn't. I don't know enough. And I wouldn't like it, either.
And I should have to leave Granny, who wants me, and is fond of me--"

"And Dick!" burst out Max, spitefully. "You would have to give up the
society of Dick."

It was possible, even in the darkness, to perceive that this remark
startled Carrie. She said, in astonishment which she could not hide:

"And what do you know about Dick?"

"I know that you wouldn't care for a life that is repugnant to every
notion of decency, if it were not for Dick," retorted Max, with rash
warmth.

Carrie laughed again.

"I'm afraid you got your information from the wrong quarter," said she,
quietly. "Not from Dick himself, that's certain."

There was some relief to Max in this confident assertion, but not much.
Judging Dick by his own feelings, he was sure that person had not
reached the stage of intimacy at which Carrie called him by his
Christian name without hankering after further marks of her favor.

"He is fond of you, of course!" said Max, feeling that he had no right
to say this, but justifying into himself on the ground of his wish to
help her out of her wretched position.

"Well, I suppose he is."

"Are you--of course I've no right to ask--but are you fond of him?"

Carrie shook her head with indifference.

"I like him in my way," said she. "Not in his way. There's a great
difference."

"And do you like any man--in his way?"

The girl replied with a significant gesture of disgust, which had in it
nothing of coquetry, nothing of affectation.

"No," said she, shortly.

"Why do you answer like that?"

"Why? Oh, well, if you knew all that I've seen, you wouldn't wonder, you
wouldn't want to ask."

"You won't always feel like that. You won't, when you have got away from
this hole, and are living among decent people."

"The 'decent people' are those who leave me alone," said Carrie,
shortly, "as they do here."

"As