; here hurry. How's your wrist?"

"Hurts," said Kat briefly, finding tears inclined to obstruct her
utterance; and then they were silent, while the muddy garments were
hastily laid aside and the dry ones slipped on; and the two started
round-a-bouts for home.

A little while later, Kittie appeared at the sitting-room door, where
the girls were sewing with mother, while Ernestine trilled and warbled
at the piano. Mrs. Dering came out to the hall in answer to Kittie's
beckon, and received this somewhat incoherent report:

"Kat's upstairs; we walked the foundation, and she fell off the high
part; I took her some clothes, but I don't know what she's done to her
wrist;" and Mrs. Dering did not waste any time trying to get a
straighter report, but hurried up stairs, where Kat was lying on the
bed, moaning and trying not to cry, with the painfully swollen wrist,
laid out on a pillow. Twenty minutes' later the doctor was there with
splints and bandages, and Kat, looking into his eyes with a vague alarm,
asked, after he had examined it: "How long before I can use it?"

"Many weeks, Kathleen."

"Why, is it badly sprained?"

"Worse, I think, my dear little girl, for it is pretty badly broken."

CHAPTER IV.

IN CONFIDENCE.

Olive's door was locked.

Jean saw her go in, and heard the bolt slide swiftly across after the
door shut, and just the glimpse that the little girl had of her sister's
face, showed tears on the sallow cheeks, and hanging to the lashes.
Olive was bitterly opposed to having any one know that she cried, and
above all things to have any one see her employed in that manner; she
herself, could not have told why perhaps, except that she did not want
it. All of her feelings were so carefully hidden, and herself so wrapped
in a cloak of reserve, that the surface was as delicately sensitive, as
gossamer, and at every touch that left its impress, she retired farther
within herself, and left less room for touch of any kind. Now, when she
caught a glimpse of Jean's face, she shut the door sharper than was
necessary, and going over to the window, sat down and stared moodily off
into the yard, where the scarlet tops of the maples nodded to a golden,
glowing sky. Surprised and curious, Jean lingered a moment, with her
hand on the bannister, surveying the door thoughtfully, then limped
carefully across, and knocked softly.

"Who is it?" came tartly from within.

"Me, Olive. Are you sick?"

"No."

Jean