lp feeling as I do about it.
I can't bear to think of Anne,--my pretty sister Anne,--married to that old
rummy. Why, she's fit to be the wife of a god. She's the prettiest girl in
New York and she'd be one of the best if she had half a chance. A fellow
like Braden Thorpe would make a queen of her, and that's just what she
ought to be. Oh, Lord! To think of her being married to that burnt-out,
shrivelled-up--"

"George! That will do, sir!"

His sister was staring at him in utter perplexity. Something like wonder
was growing in her lovely, velvety eyes. Never before had she heard such
words as these from the lips of her big and hitherto far from considerate
brother, the brother who had always begrudged her the slightest sign of
favour from their mother, who had blamed her for securing by unfair means
more than her share of the maternal peace-offerings.

Suddenly the big boy dug his knuckles into his eyes and turned away,
muttering an oath of mortification. Anne sprang to his side. Her hands
fell upon his shoulders.

"What are you doing, George? Are--are you crazy?"

"Crazy _nothing_," he choked out, biting his lip. "Go away, Anne. I'm just
a damned fool, that's all. I--"

"Mother, he's--he's crying," whispered Anne, bewildered. "What is it,
George?" For the first time in her life she slipped an affectionate arm
about him and laid her cheek against his sleek, black hair. "Buck up,
little boy; don't take it like this. I'll--I'll be all right. I'll--oh, I'll
never forget you for feeling as you do, George. I didn't think you'd
really care so much."

"Why,--why, Anne, of course I care," he gulped. "Why shouldn't I care?
Aren't you my sister, and I your brother? I'd be a fine mess of a thing if
I didn't care. I tell you, mother, it's awful! You know it is! It is a
queer thing for a brother to say, I suppose, but--but I _do_ love Anne. All
my life I've looked upon her as the finest thing in the world. I've been
mean and nasty and all that sort of thing and I'm always saying rotten
things to her, but, darn it, I--I do love my pretty sister. I ought to hate
you, Anne, for this infernal thing you are determined to do--I ought to, do
you understand, but I can't, I just can't. It's the rottenest thing a girl
can do, and you're doing it, I--oh, say, what's the matter with me?
Sniffling idiot! I say, where the devil _do_ you keep your pen?"
Wrathfully he jerked a pile of note paper and blotters off the desk,
scattering them on