Helen nodded. She was very near tears.
But Kate rose to the occasion. She knew. She pointed at Helen’s chair.
“Sit down, dear. We’ll have food,” she said, quietly. “I’m as hungry as any coyote.”
Helen obeyed. She was feeling so miserable for her sister, that she had lost all inclination to eat. But Kate seemed to have entirely risen above any of the feelings she had so lately displayed. She laughed, and, with gentle insistence, forced the other to eat her dinner. Strangely enough her manner had become that which Helen seemed to have lost sight of for so long. All her actions, all her words, were full of confident assurance, and quiet command.
Gradually, under this new influence, the anxiety began to die out of Helen’s eyes, and the watchful Kate beheld the change with satisfaction. Then, when the girl had done full justice to the simple meal, she pushed her own plate aside, planted her elbows upon the table, and sat with her strong brown hands clasped.
“Now tell me,” she commanded gently.
In a moment Helen’s anxiety returned, and her lips trembled. The next she was telling her story—in a confused sort of rush.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she cried. “It’s—it’s too bad. You see, Kate, I didn’t sort of think about it, or trouble anything, until you let me know how you felt over that—that old story. It didn’t seem to me that old tree mattered at all. It didn’t seem to me it could hurt cutting it down, any more than any other. And now—now it just seems as if—as if the world’ll come to an end when they cut it down. I believe I’m more frightened than you are.”
“Frightened?”
Kate smiled. But the smile scarcely disguised her true feelings.