“You are not well,” she said quickly and kindly. “You must go to your room at once. I am going to take care of you--you are MY little sister now.” June lost the subtlety in Miss Hale's emphasis, but she fell with instant submission under such gentle authority, and though she could say nothing, her eyes glistened and her lips quivered, and without looking to Hale, she followed his sister out of the room. Hale stood still. He had watched the meeting with apprehension and now, surprised and grateful, he went to Helen's parlour and waited with a hopeful heart. When his sister entered, he rose eagerly: “Well--” he said, stopping suddenly, for there were tears of vexation, dismay and genuine distress on his sister's face. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, “how could you! How could you!” Hale bit his lips, turned and paced the room. He had hoped too much and yet what else could he have expected? His sister and June knew as little about each other and each other's lives as though they had occupied different planets. He had forgotten that Helen must be shocked by June's inaccuracies of speech and in a hundred other ways to which he had become accustomed. With him, moreover, the process had been gradual and, moreover, he had seen beneath it all. And yet he had foolishly expected Helen to understand everything at once. He was unjust, so very wisely he held himself in silence. “Where is her baggage, Jack?” Helen had opened her trunk and was lifting out the lid. “She ought to change those dusty clothes at once. You'd better ring and have it sent right up.” “No,” said Hale, “I will go down and see about it myself.” He returned presently--his face aflame--with June's carpet-bag. “I believe this is all she has,” he said quietly. In spite of herself Helen's grief changed to a fit of helpless laughter and, afraid to trust himself further, Hale rose to leave the room. At the door he was met by the negro maid. “Miss Helen,” she said with an open smile, “Miss June say she don't want NUTTIN'.” Hale gave her a fiery look and hurried out. June was seated at a window when he went into her room with her face buried in her arms. She lifted her head, dropped it, and he saw that her eyes were red with weeping. “Are you sick, little girl?” he asked anxiously. June shook her head helplessly. “You aren't homesick, are you?” “No.” The answer came very faintly. “Don't you like my sister?” The head bowed an emphatic “Yes--yes.” “Then what is the matter?” “Oh,” she said despairingly, between her sobs, “she--won't--like--me. I never--can--be--like HER.” Hale smiled, but her grief was so sincere that he leaned over her and with a tender hand soothed her into quiet. Then he went to Helen again and he found her overhauling dresses. “I brought along several things of different sizes and I am going to try at any rate. Oh,” she added hastily, “only of course until she can get some clothes of her own.”