He returned presently—his face aflame—with June's carpet-bag.
“I believe this is all she has,” he said quietly.
In spite of herself Helen's grief changed to a fit of helpless laughter and, afraid to trust himself further, Hale rose to leave the room. At the door he was met by the negro maid.
“Miss Helen,” she said with an open smile, “Miss June say she don't want NUTTIN'.” Hale gave her a fiery look and hurried out. June was seated at a window when he went into her room with her face buried in her arms. She lifted her head, dropped it, and he saw that her eyes were red with weeping. “Are you sick, little girl?” he asked anxiously. June shook her head helplessly.
“You aren't homesick, are you?”
“No.” The answer came very faintly.
“Don't you like my sister?” The head bowed an emphatic “Yes—yes.”
“Then what is the matter?”
“Oh,” she said despairingly, between her sobs, “she—won't—like—me. I never—can—be—like HER.”
Hale smiled, but her grief was so sincere that he leaned over her and with a tender hand soothed her into quiet. Then he went to Helen again and he found her overhauling dresses.