“You know that is not true, Helen,” he replied, almost sternly. “It IS true!” she asseverated, “and I'm THROUGH!” “It's a little hard,” said Thorpe passing his hand wearily before his eyes, “to work hard this way for years, and then--” She laughed with a hard little note of scorn. “Helen,” said Thorpe with new energy, “I forbid you to have anything to do with Amos Thorpe. I think he is a scoundrel and a sneak.” “What grounds have you to think so?” “None,” he confessed, “that is, nothing definite. But I know men; and I know his type. Some day I shall be able to prove something. I do not wish you to have anything to do with him.” “I shall do as I please,” she replied, crossing her hands behind her. Thorpe's eyes darkened. “We have talked this over a great many times,” he warned, “and you've always agreed with me. Remember, you owe something to the family.” “Most of the family seem to owe something,” she replied with a flippant laugh. “I'm sure I didn't choose the family. If I had, I'd have picked out a better one!” The flippancy was only a weapon which she used unconsciously, blindly, in her struggle. The man could not know this. His face hardened, and his voice grew cold. “You may take your choice, Helen,” he said formally. “If you go into the household of Amos Thorpe, if you deliberately prefer your comfort to your honor, we will have nothing more in common.” They faced each other with the cool, deadly glance of the race, so similar in appearance but so unlike in nature. “I, too, offer you a home, such as it is,” repeated the man. “Choose!” At the mention of the home for which means were so quickly forthcoming when Thorpe, not she, considered it needful, the girl's eyes flashed. She stooped and dragged violently from beneath the bed a flat steamer trunk, the lid of which she threw open. A dress lay on the bed. With a fine dramatic gesture she folded the garment and laid it in the bottom of the trunk. Then she knelt, and without vouchsafing another glance at her brother standing rigid by the door, she began feverishly to arrange the folds. The choice was made. He turned and went out. Chapter XXXIV With Thorpe there could be no half-way measure. He saw that the rupture with his sister was final, and the thrust attained him in one of his few unprotected points. It was not as though he felt either himself or his sister consciously in the wrong. He acquitted her of all fault, except as to the deadly one of misreading and misunderstanding. The fact argued not a perversion but a lack in her character. She was other than he had thought her.