But the worst was, there wasn't any fun. There wasn't anything to go to, and, anyhow, I couldn't afford the car-fare back in the evening. Mis' Bingy had found a place where she could leave the baby a little while every day, and she done some cleaning. We moved out of our first room to one farther up that didn't cost so high. I got so I begun to think ahead, nights. Then one night when I come in, the lady we rented of says a lady had been there to see me; "A lady," she says, "that come in a automobile and says her words as careful as if she was a-singin' in the church. She's a-comin' back again." And when she come, she stood by the table and says: "Miss Wakely, I am Mis' Arthur Carney." "My land!" I says. It had never entered my head that he might have a wife on top of everything else. "I have been hearing," she says, "of what you did some time ago. I mean about--Mr. Carney. I have come to find you, because it seemed to me that you must be a remarkable girl." "Oh, Mis' Carney," I says, "nobody needs to be remarkable to think of getting _him_ arrested." And then I remembered something: "Yes, sir!" I says, "it was you! It was you that was in the pinkish dress in Mr. Ember's house that day!" And I told her what she had been saying when she passed the door. But all I was thinking was--she knew; him. She knew Mr. Ember, too! She talked to me a long time. She didn't ask me many questions--and I didn't tell her much about me, but still in a little while we felt real acquainted. And pretty soon she says: "I came really, you know, to see whether you had found another position--after you left that one. I've had a good deal of a time finding you out. What have you done since? What are you doing now?" I told her some of it. "And what do you want to do?" she says then. I don't know what give me the courage. It was just like something in me said: "Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." And I said it. "Oh," I says, "I'd work my head off if I could go somewheres to school. But I don't want to know just school things. I want to know more than them...." "What do you want to know?" she says. It was funny how easy it was to talk to her. Father or Mother or Luke or Mis' Bingy, that I'd known all my life, I couldn't have explained things to like I could to her. But I think that was part because she didn't need everything all said out in sentences, and then it was part because I knew she wouldn't make a fuss at me when I got through. When she went away: "I'm going to look around a little," she says, "I'll come back in a few days." "But, oh," I says, "you know, there's Mis' Bingy and the baby. I couldn't do anything that'd take me away from her. I don't know why you bother with me anyway," I says. She had the loveliest dignified way. "We owe you something, my husband and I," she says.