“What is the matter with it?”

“Why, —­” said Winnie, looking dismayfully at the couch with which Winthrop had filled the place of his bed, transferred to her room, —­ “it’s too narrow!”

“I don’t fall out of it,” said her brother quietly.

“It isn’t comfortable!”

“I am, when I am on it.”

“But it’s hard!”

“Not if I don’t think it is hard.”

“I don’t see how that makes any difference,” said Winnie discontentedly.  “It’s hard to me.”

“But it’s not your bed, Winnie.”

“I don’t like it to be yours, Winthrop.”

He was busy laying a slice of ham on the coals and putting a skillet of water over the fire; and then coming to her side he began, without speaking, and with a pleasant face, to untie the strings of her bonnet and to take off that and her other coverings, with a gentle sort of kindness that made itself felt and not heard.  Winnie bore it with difficulty; her features moved and trembled.

“It’s too much for you to have to take care of me,” she said in a voice changed from its former expression.

“Too much?” said Winthrop.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s too much.  Can you do it?”

“I think I can take care of you, Winnie.  You forget who has promised to take care of us both.”

She threw her arms round his neck exclaiming, “I forget everything! —­”

“No, not quite,” said he.

“I do! —­ except that I love you.  I wish I could be good, Winthrop! —­ even as good as I used to be.”

“That wouldn’t content me,” said her brother; —­ “I want you to be better.”

She clasped her arms in an earnest clasp about his neck, very close, but said nothing.

“Now sit down, Winnie,” said he presently, gently disengaging her arms and putting her into a chair, —­ “or something else will not be good enough.”

She watched him again, while he turned the ham and put eggs in the skillet, and fetched out an odd little salt-cellar and more spoons and cups for the eggs.

“But Winthrop!” she said starting, —­ “where’s your tea-kettle?”

“I don’t know. I have never had it yet, Winnie.”

“Never had a tea-kettle?”

“No.”

“Then how do you do, Winthrop?”

“I do without,” he said lightly.  “Can’t you?”

“Do without a tea-kettle!”

“Yes.”

“But how do you make tea and coffee?”

“I don’t make them.”

“Don’t you have tea and coffee?”

“No, except when somebody else makes it for me.”

“I’ll make it for you, Winthrop!”

“No, Winnie —­ I don’t want you to have it any more than myself.”

“But Winthrop —­ I can’t drink water!”

“I think you can —­ if I want you to.”