It was further mystifying to him that a shade of relief certainly passed over his father’s face at this reply, and yet it might be explicable on the ground that although Mr. Van Tassel would not refuse his son’s wishes, he was glad to find that there was no question of a union between his own family and one so poor and obscure as the Bryants. "There might well have been a preference," was the grave answer. "Clover, young as she is, is a pearl among women. The Breckinridges have just gone abroad for a year, and Mrs. Breckinridge, before she left, told me that she had invited Clover to accompany them; but the girl refused to leave her mother and the children. Think of the way the Breckinridges will travel, and what it cost her to refuse!" "Whew, that was rough! Clover is a brick," declared Jack, his eyes bright enough now with their accustomed interest in life. "It ought not to be allowed. Can’t we do something? Get a trained nurse for Mrs. Bryant, and invite her and the children to our house for the year?" Mr. Van Tassel smiled at this outburst. "We not only can’t do anything," he returned, "but we mustn’t say anything. Clover bound Mrs. Breckinridge to secrecy, because it would be such a grief to Mrs. Bryant to discover what her daughter had renounced for her." "She’s strong, Clover is," said Jack, with an admiring shake of the head. "I shall be glad to see her again." Then he asked his father a question regarding business, and the subject of the Bryants was dropped. *CHAPTER II.* *UNCLE ADOLPH’S LETTER.* Several weeks later, in the long, narrow back yard of one of a block of wooden houses in Chicago, a girl was hanging out clothes on a line. An occasional hot breeze blew the soft brown hair in stray locks across her forehead, and the sun beat down from the glowing sky on her unprotected head. "Clover, Clover darling," called a weak voice from an open window, "you’ve been out there so long! Aren’t you almost through? You will get a sunstroke. Do, at least, put on a hat." The girl brushed her flying hair back with one hand. "I’m all right, mother," she called, her cheery tones contrasting pleasantly with the sad voice. "She is doing too much. I know she is," murmured the feeble watcher within, keeping her yearning gaze on the lithe young figure. "Bless her brave heart!" The dim eyes filled. The front door slamming broke in upon the mother’s meditations, and another girl entered the shabby room where she sat. She was a tall, broad-shouldered young creature of seventeen, the face under her heavy, half-falling brown hair flushed with heat, health, and happiness. She seemed to fill the room as she skipped up to the white-haired figure and pressed the infantile curve of her peachy cheek against the pale face.