Cornelia felt her heart sinking. “What kind of a girl, Louie?” “Oh, a girl with flour on her face, and an awful tight skirt; and when she goes out evenings, she wears her back bare way down almost to her waist. I saw her in a concert at our church, and she was dressed that way there; and folks were all looking at her, and saying it wasn’t nice. She dances, too, and kicks, with lots of skirts and ruffles and things, made of chiffon; and she makes eyes at boys; and I know a girl at school that says she saw her smoking cigarettes at a restaurant once. You see it isn’t much use to fix up Carey’s room when he does things like that. He doesn’t deserve it.” Cornelia looked aghast. “Oh, but we must, Louie! We must all the more then. And perhaps the girl isn’t so bad if we knew her, and—and tried to help her. Some girls are awfully silly at a certain age, dear.” “Well, you oughtta see her. Harry knows, and he thinks she’s the limit. He says the boys all talk about her. She paints her face, too, and wears big black earrings down on her shoulders sometimes, and she wears her hair just like the pictures of the devil!” Cornelia had to laugh at the earnest, fierce little face; and the laugh broke the tension somewhat. “Well, dearie, we’ll have to find a way to coax Carey back to us,” she said soothingly, even while her heart was sinking. “He’s our brother, you know; and we love him, and it would break mother’s heart.” “Oh, I know,” sighed the little girl. “I’ve tried to think of something; but we’re so poor, and this house is dreadful. Of course, it’s a lot better than State Street, though,” she said, brightening. “It is?” Cornelia’s voice conveyed dismay. “Oh yes,” said Louise, not noticing her sister’s face. “We hadn’t any side windows at all there; the houses were close up, and there were very unpleasant people all around. It wasn’t at all a good neighborhood. Carey hated it. He wouldn’t come home for days and days. He said it wasn’t fit for pigs.” “Where did he go? Where has he gone now, do you suppose?” “Oh, off with the boys somewhere. Sometimes to their houses. Sometimes they take trips around. One of them has a car. His father’s rich. But I don’t like him. His name’s Brand Barlock. He drives wherever he likes. They went to Washington once, and were gone a week. Mother never slept a wink those nights, just sat at the front window and watched after we went to bed. I know, for I woke up and found her so several times. He might ’av gone to Baltimore now. There’s a game down that way sometime soon. I guess it was last night. Harry heard ’em talking about it. They go with the gang of fellows that used to play on our high school team when Carey was in school.” “School?” Cornelia caught at the word hopefully. “Perhaps it’s only fun, then, Louie. Maybe, it’s nothing really bad.” “No. They’re pretty tough,” sighed the wise child. “Harry knows. He hears the boys talk.”