’Oh yes, I know Mr. Cunliffe is here.  I heard papa go out and speak to him; his voice sounded quite cheerful; and now he has come and it will all be settled; and you will go away and be happy with your poor people, and forget that I am fretting myself to death in this horrid room.’

She had drawn me down on the rug forcibly,—­for she had the strength of a young Titaness,—­and was wrapping her arms around me with a sort of fierce impatience.  Her big eyes looked troubled and affectionate.  Few people admired Jill; she was undeveloped and awkward, full of angles, and a little brusque in manner; she had a way of thrusting out her big feet and squaring her shoulders that horrified Aunt Philippa.  She was very big, certainly, and would never possess Sara’s slim grace.  Her hair had been cropped in some illness, and had not grown so fast as they expected, but hung in short thick lengths about her neck; it was always getting into her eyes, and was being pushed back impatiently, but she would much oftener throw her head back with a fling like an unbroken pony, for she was jerky as young things often are.

But, though, people found fault with Jill, and often said that she would never be as handsome as Sara, I liked her face.  Perhaps it was a little irregular and her complexion slightly sallow, but when she was flushed or excited and she opened her big bright eyes, and one could see her little white teeth gleaming as she laughed, I have thought Jill could look almost beautiful; but her good looks depended on her expression.

‘I suppose it will be settled,’ I replied, with a quick catch at my breath, for the mere mention of the subject excited me; ’but you will be a good child and not fret if I do go away.  No, I shall never forget you,’ as a close hug answered me; ’I love you too dearly for that; but I want you to be brave about it, dear, for I cannot be happy wasting my time and doing nothing.  You know how ill I was before I went to St. Thomas’s, so that Uncle Max was obliged to tell Aunt Philippa that I must have change and hard work, or I should follow Charlie.’

’Oh yes, and we were all so frightened about you, you poor thing; you looked so pinched and miserable.  Well, I suppose I must let you go, as you are so wicked as to disobey the proverb that “Charity begins at home."’

‘Listen to me, dear,’ I returned, quite pleased to find her so reasonable.  ’I am very glad to know that I have been a comfort to you, but I shall hope to be so still.  I will write long letters to you, Jill, and tell you all about my work, and you shall answer them, and talk to me on paper about the books you have read, and the queer thoughts you have, and how patient and strong you have grown, and how you have learned to put up with Fraeulein’s little ways and not aggravate her with your untidiness.’  And here Jill’s hand—­and it was by no means a small hand—­closed my lips rather abruptly.  But I was used to this sort of sledge-hammer form of argument.