I have often wondered how it would seem to have more than one brother and sister; it always seems as if all the love I have went to these two, and that there would have been none left for others; or at least that it would have had to be divided up, leaving each the poorer—one does not have to divide for brother and sister—the love you give a sister is peculiarly hers, the love to a brother peculiarly his, but how is it that large families have enough to go around?

Death has never come nearer to me than when my grandparents were taken. Not unmindful of this escape, I think of it often now. Once I thought, “Death can never take away my father and mother, my sister and brother,” but of late I am losing the feeling that none of the calamities of life can come nigh me; and, instead, find myself trying to think what it would be like to live on if one of them were taken.

Once when Brother was a lad of perhaps twelve, during an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, his heart acted so badly that Sister and I were sent for in great haste to come home from school. The attack passed, but after that illness his disposition was altered; he was more irritable, with a temper much like Grandpa’s. He would domineer over us, as big brothers will, speaking sharply over trifles, and he and Sister would quarrel. I did not quarrel, but would grieve over his harsh tones. I never could endure angry tones, they always made me shudder. Noting this susceptibility, Brother was more patient with me than with Sister, who would get miffed easily and talk back. My tears, which came easily in those days, always melted him. Consciously or unconsciously, I ruled him to some extent by this weakness.

Once in school a boy whispered maliciously, “Genie, Art is reading a dime novel.” Now I had never read a dime novel, but having strait-laced notions of how wicked they were, my whole soul rose in denial—my brother do such a thing! No! But seeing Arthur bending over his geography with unaccustomed diligence, something in his absorption told me that what that boy said was true! The tears flowed fast. Ah, the bitterness of that knowledge! Someone—the same boy, was it?—told Arthur his little sister was weeping because he was reading a dime novel, and at recess he berated me; I cried the more bitterly; he then consoled me in his half-scolding, half-wheedling way, finally promising not to do it again.

And when he first learned to smoke! We were skating on the canal at noon-time, I skating with a girl that Arthur was “sweet on.” Suddenly he skated past us with a braggadocio air, a cigar in his mouth! Carrie and I gave one look at each other, one swift, comprehending look—if Arthur had robbed a bank or stolen a horse we could hardly have felt worse. We tacitly sat down and took off our skates, and, heavy-hearted, went ’cross-lots to school, the skates dangling from our arms, and the lumps in our throats choking us. I cannot remember that we talked about it; it was too awful to discuss. And that defiant look of Arthur’s, how it cut! Our grief-stricken faces must have worked on his conscience, for in the afternoon a note was passed to me (I’ve no doubt he wrote to Her, too), in which Arthur said:

Dear Sister,

Why did you leave the ice this noon? We had a good time.

Then as if in afterthought,

Did you feel bad because I was smoking? I won’t do it again.

Your loving brother,
Arthur.

He kept his word for a long time; then, whenever he would break it, there would be tears and repentance and fresh promises. Similar scenes occurred the first time I smelled his breath and learned that he had been drinking. Heart-breakings, attempted denials, then confessions, promises, struggles to keep them, followed by lapses, penitence, and tears.