“Well, it’s pretty bad,” he said, in a deep voice of regret.  “I don’t wonder it breaks you up.  Such a little thing to do so much mischief—­and so easy to have avoided it all.  I reckon you’ll take care of your banana skins after this.  But I like the way you own up, Just, and so will Celia.  That’s something.  You haven’t been a sneak in addition to being thoughtless.  It would have been hard to forgive you if I had found it out while you kept still.  It’s pretty hard as it is,” he could not help adding, as his imagination pictured Celia spending her winter as a cripple.

Just said not a word, but the outline of his profile against the fading light at the window was so suggestive of boyish despair that the elder brother walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“It gives you a chance to make it up to her in every way you can,” he said.  “There are a lot of things you can do for her, and I shall expect you to try to square the account a little.”

“I will!  Oh, I will!” cried poor Just, who had longed for his mother in this crisis, and had found facing the elder brother, whom he both admired and feared, harder than anything he had ever had to do.  “I’ll do anything in the world for her, if she’ll only forgive me.”

“She’ll forgive you, for she’s made that way.  It’s forgiving yourself that can’t be done.”

“I never shall.”

“Don’t.  If I thought you would, I’d thrash you on the spot,” said Lanse, grimly, sure that a wholesome remorse was to be encouraged.  Then he relented sufficiently to say in a tone considerably less severe: 

“Go and wash up, and begin your good resolutions by getting down and seeing to the kitchen fire.  It’s undoubtedly burnt itself out by this time.  There’s probably no dinner for anybody, but we can’t mind little things like that to-night.”

He went to Celia’s room at last, feeling many cares upon him, a sensation which an empty, stomach did not tend to relieve.  He found his sister able to give him a very pale-faced but courageous smile, and to receive his earnest sympathy with a faint: 

“Never mind, dear.  Don’t worry.  It might have been worse.”

“That seems to be everybody’s motto, so I’ll accept it.  We’ll take courage, and you shall have us all on our knees, since yours are laid up for repairs.”

“You haven’t had your dinner, Lanse,” murmured Celia.  She was suffering severely, but she could not relax anything of her anxiety for the family welfare.

“Oh, I forgot there was such a thing as dinner in the world!” cried Charlotte, and was hurrying to the door when Celia called her back. “Please wash that smudge off your face,” she whispered, and covered her eyes.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV

Coming down-stairs from Celia’s room, Dr. Andrew Churchill made his way through what had now become somewhat familiar ground to the little kitchen.  As he looked in at the door he beheld a slim figure in a big Turkey-red apron, bending over a chicken which lay, in a state of semi-dissection, upon the table.  As he watched for a moment without speaking, Charlotte herself spoke, without turning round.