"From—the Home for—Dependent Children—in Sullivan County," she murmured hesitatingly, with a tinge of color in her cheeks. On a sudden I saw her pale lips tremble and guiltily I realized that, thoughtless, after my wont, I was subjecting her to an ordeal merely because I was in torment. "Sit down," I forced myself to speak evenly, "and tell me exactly what happened." She sidled to the big chair, her gaze still fixed upon me, as though to watch me was henceforth her first anxiety. She gripped the arm of the chair and hung undecided for a moment as though fearful of making herself so much at home as to sit down in this room. "Sit down," I reiterated more encouragingly, "and tell me what happened to my sister." "Yes, sir," she murmured obediently, perching on the edge of the great chair. "Well," she began, "when I came home from school in the afternoon Mrs. Pendleton was lying down. The children were hanging about her bed and she looked very pale." "Yes, yes," I urged her on impatiently. "Then I took them downstairs and gave them their bread and milk and tried to read to them so as to keep them quiet. But only the littlest one, Jimmie, wanted to listen. Randolph and Laura wanted to play Kings and Queens." I realized that I must hear the story in the girl’s own way. "Then," she continued, with an effort at exactitude, "I thought that Jimmie and I had better join them, because then I could keep them from making so much noise. We played until supper time. But Mrs. Pendleton didn’t feel well enough to come down. So the children and I had supper downstairs and Hattie—that’s the cook—took Mrs. Pendleton’s supper up on a tray." That must have been while I was lamenting to Dibdin over the hardness of my lot. "Then what happened?" I muttered, turning away from her gaze. "I went up to see if Mrs. Pendleton wanted anything," she resumed nervously, frightened by my movement, "and she said no, but that she’d get up later when it was time for them to go to bed. So I helped them with their lessons until bedtime and Mrs. Pendleton came down. She said she felt a little better, but she looked very sad and white. And when she began to walk up the stairs—" her lips grew tremulous again and the tears dashed out of her eyes, but she finally controlled herself bravely. "—She fell—and—" she began to weep bitterly, "she just said, ’The children—my brother—telephone—’ and that was all—" and that piteous child who was no kindred to my poor sister sobbed convulsively. That must have been about the time when I was at table with Dibdin and, over the sauterne, complaining to him of the narrowness of my income in view of the lacunæ and wants of my library. "We couldn’t—get you—on the telephone," she found breath to utter at last. "So I brought the children here—Hattie told me how to go—Hattie’s over there alone."