“Why, I never thought of it like that,” she said. “But I guess you’re right.” She looked at Lis thoughtfully, that new, warm smile still curling up the corners of her lips. “I’m glad you are going to be here instead of Tommy,” she announced, unexpectedly. “He and Erica don’t like me, but I sort of think maybe—maybe you might let me be your friend.” That last was said so humbly and wistfully, without any of her usual sharpness and discontent, that the boy was genuinely touched. “You bet I’ll let you be my friend, Milly,” he said, decidedly. “You just count on me, and when you feel homesick, or things—go kind of wrong, you come and tell me about it. See? It always helps a lot if you can talk your worries over with some one. And I know,” he added, more awkwardly, “that Ricky and Tom will want to be your friends, too, if you’d only give ‘em an idea you’d meet them halfway. I guess they think you don’t like them, either.” To this Milly made no answer, but as she did not argue the point Lis felt encouraged. “I know what homesickness is,” he volunteered after a second little silence had fallen between them. “I would have given most anything at times, on that voyage to China, to be back here on Orange Street. You see, I’d never been away from home before, and I missed everyone—specially Tom.” “It isn’t all homesickness with me,” Milly said, honestly. “I haven’t a nice disposition, really. If I know people round me love me and want me with them, why I—I’d do just _anything_ for them. I always thought of my mother first, and I do now of Barbee, and—and I’m fond of Cousin Callie. But—it’s a horrid feeling,” she burst out, vehemently, her face flushing hotly, “to know you’re not wanted—that you’re only in the way, and—and that you’re—dependent on—on charity for your food and home and—and clothes. Mother didn’t leave any money for Barbee and me. Poor little mother, she worked hard at dress-making up to the very last, to keep a roof over our heads. I used to wish so hard I was a few years older, so I could earn money, too—somehow. Of course, uncle helped as much as he could, but he has only his pay as mate on a packet, you know, and there are others in the family to call on him, too.” Lis’s face was very grave and sympathetic. “Yes, that was hard—seeing your mother troubled about money, I mean,” he agreed. “We haven’t much ourselves, but we’re—not poor. We’ve got our home, and mother has a small income, and some day Tom and I’ll be earning more, of course. So you mustn’t ever feel you and Barbee are any burden. It doesn’t cost us anything to have you two sleep in the house—now, does it? Be sensible,” he urged, anxiously. “And you more than pay for the little you eat, by helping mother as you do with the housework and the sewing. You’re not—not dependent at all, Milly Thorne. I think that’s an unkind word to use between relations—truly I do.”