Jean faced her trouble bravely and without complaint, but the effort told on her as the days passed by, and she grew frail and slender, and an expression of deep sadness lingered in her soft eyes; but the change in her took place so slowly, so gradually, that no one seemed to be aware of it. As the days shortened, they would spend their evenings over the wood fire in the manor drawing-room, reading aloud from some favorite book of poetry or prose. Jean invariably found a place on the divan in the corner, and when someone rallied her on her lazy habit, she only smiled faintly and nestled down among the cushions. One cold, gusty evening, when the rain beat against the windowpanes and the wind howled dismally about the house, Eleanor took up a volume of poems from the table and began to read a poem called "Oenone." Helen's eyes unconsciously sought Jean's face. It was half turned away, and one little hand made shift to shield it, but Helen distinctly saw two great tears steal silently down from under the closed lids. This set her heart to aching, and alone in her room that night she pondered long what could be done for her poor little sister. In the end she penned a letter, which in the morning she carried herself to the post-office, and anxiously awaited the result. Before October had well-nigh come around, Jean was really ill; so ill that Aunt Helen, and even thoughtless Nathalie, were seriously concerned. All day long she would lie on the sofa in her room, scarcely speaking save in response to some direct question that was put to her, and all through the long hours of the night her tired eyes never closed. "I don't think she ever sleeps," Nathalie confided to Helen one day in a troubled voice. "Whenever I speak to her she is always wide-awake, and once or twice I have thought I heard her crying." Helen shook her head sadly, and watched the mails with an increasing impatience for the answer to her letter. It came at last, and when she had read it through hurriedly, she went at once to Jean's room, and sitting down beside her, took her cold little hands in hers. "Do you feel so badly to-day, dear?" she said tenderly. "No, Helen, only very tired." The sigh with which these words were spoken went right to Helen's heart. "Would you like to go away where you would have a complete change of scene?" Jean raised herself on her elbow, and turned an eager eye toward her sister. "Oh, yes. I want to go away. It's the only thing in the world I really want, and oh, I want it so very much. Helen, I--I can't stay here." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't you see how hard it is for me?" Helen bent down and kissed her. "Well, darling, I have arranged it for you, and I have only been waiting for this letter to tell you that it was all right. You see, I didn't want to speak to you, dear, until everything was settled. Now, shall I read you what the letter says?" "Yes." Helen drew the letter from her pocket and unfolded it: