as lucky enough to have a sister, but as I had three
brothers who did everything I can't do, I know how it feels to--to be
out of it."

"But you understand my sisters are splendid and no end nice to me."

"So were my brothers," said Willy loyally.

She looked at him with a quick sympathy. "I know," she murmured. "Mr.
Rivers told me. And all in one year. It must have been dreadful."

"Yes, it was. But it was worse when my mother died."

"Oh, yes. I was sixteen when my mother died. And I miss her so now.
Don't you?"

"Yes. I was fifteen."

They were both silent. The weight of their piteous memories was on both
young hearts, and yet in each was a sense of companionship, of the
sympathy of a common pain. The tears gathered slowly in the girl's eyes;
she put her hand up her sleeve, but withdrew it empty, and the young
man, taking out his own handkerchief, which had surely seen hard usage,
looked disconsolately on it before tendering the freshest corner. "It's
pretty mussy, but I lost the others," he apologized.

"And you have pockets, too! I lose handkerchiefs to an appalling
extent."

"So do I." It was wonderful how many things they had in
common--thoughts, opinions, most delightfully human of all, faults. He
felt emboldened to say that it must be a great comfort to have a
sister; he had always wanted one.

"They're a good deal of a nuisance, most boys think," said she, "but I
don't know why. I know I shouldn't have been a nuisance to my brothers
and I should rather like to have had one. We might have been pals."

His eyes sparkled; he felt that he was about to make a proposal as
daring as it was original; but he made it, clutching the lever under his
hand more firmly in his agitation, yet not hesitating. "If we are going
to play things, why not play you are my sister? It would be easier than
being two boys. You see I should all the time be afraid of forgetting
somehow and saying something unbecoming, or too rough, if we played you
were a boy."

She had more sense of humor than he, although she was scarcely less
innocent; she laughed, saying, "Most boys are rough enough to their
sisters. Besides, I don't know you well enough."

"You know me better than any one in the world does," he answered
gravely. Their young eyes met and darted away. He thought how lovely her
eyes were. Not so much in color or form, perhaps, but in expression. He
wished that he could see them that way again. But she had turned away.
He