“Your brother!” I cried. “That’s one of the Sweeney children.”
Ellen’s eyes flashed. “It is my brother,” she insisted. “You can see for yourself it’s my brother. Would one have taken anything but one’s brother up a tree? I have to take care of him all the time.”
Said I: “I’ve known the Sweeney boys all my life; there are seven of them and the third but one biggest always takes care of the smallest. There’s one littler ’n this.”
“Oh, there is!” said Ellen. Her brow darkened. “And I got up the tree with this large, hulking thing in my arms—and goodness knows how I ever did get up it!” She spoke with vigor and precision.
“Aha!” I cried, “you say yourself it’s a Sweeney.”
“I say nothing of the kind,” rejoined Ellen. “This is my brother. Come,” she wheedled, “why won’t you say it’s my brother?”
I bit my lip; I wanted to go, for I was not used to being made game of. Moreover, I disapproved of her present position extremely. There was I, my mouth made up, so to speak, for a weeping-willow air, lachrymose ringlets, dark-rimmed eyes, and black raiment, and I had encountered fallen stockings, torn blue gingham, and the Sweeney baby, and the whole of it together up a tree.
Ellen now looked down on me. Her generous mouth with its tip-tilted corners—an exotic, lovable mouth, too large for beauty, but of a remarkable texture and color—now drooped and her eyes filled,—filled beautifully, and yet did not brim over. And for all the droop of the mouth, the saddest little smile I have ever seen hovered about its corners.
“Won’t you please say that this is my brother?” she pleaded.
Though I knew it was the Sweeney baby and though I knew she was play-acting all of it, stubborn and downright child though I was, something gripped my heart. Though I couldn’t have then put it into words, there was a wistfulness and a heart-hunger about her that played a game with me. It was my first encounter and my first overthrow.