llowed," she said, "to put off from shore until the sun is
above the horizon line. And the wardens are very strict." Then she rose.
"Will you excuse me? I have the dishes to do."

The boy laid aside his book and stood up, but his sister said:

"Stay and study, Jim. I don't need any help."

And Jim resumed his seat with heightened color. A moment later, however,
he went out to the kitchen.

"Look here, Molly," he said, "wha'd' you want to give me away for?
He'll think I'm a sissy, helping you do dishes and things."

"My dear, my dear!" she exclaimed contritely, "I didn't think of it.
Please forgive me, Jim. Anyway, you don't really care what this man
thinks about any of us----"

"Yes, I do! Anyway, a fellow doesn't want another fellow to think he
washes dishes."

"You darling! Forgive me. I wasn't thinking. It was too stupid of me."

"It really was," said the boy, in his sweet, dignified voice, "and I'd
been telling him that I'd shot ducks, too."

[Illustration: "'I'm _so_ sorry, Jim.'"]

His sister caught him around the neck and kissed his blonde head. "I'm
_so_ sorry, Jim. He won't think of it again. If he does, he'll only
respect a boy who is so good to his sister. And," she added,
cautioning him with lifted finger, "don't talk too much to him, Jim, no
matter how nice and kind he is. I know how lonely you are and how
pleasant it is to talk to a man like Mr. Marche; but remember that
father doesn't wish us to say anything about ourselves or about him, so
we must be careful."

"Why doesn't father want us to speak about him or ourselves to Mr.
Marche?" asked the boy.

His sister had gone back to her dishes. Now, looking around over her
shoulder, she said seriously, "That is father's affair, dear, not ours."

"But don't you know why?"

"Shame on you, Jim! What father cares to tell us he will tell us; but
it's exceedingly bad manners to ask."

"Is father really very ill?"

"I told you that to ask me such things is improper," said the girl,
coloring. "He has told us that he does not feel well, and that he
prefers to remain in his room for a few days. That is enough for us,
isn't it?"

"Yes," said the boy thoughtfully.

II

Marche, buried under a mountain of bed clothes, dreamed that people were
rapping noisily on his door, and grinned in his dream, meaning to let
them rap until they tired of it. Suddenly a voice sounded through his
defiant slumbers, clear and charming as a golden ray parting