never be again, literally or figuratively.  Winthrop never shewed her how it was with him; not the less it was almost the ebb; and whence the flow was to come, was a point he saw not.  He was not yet admitted to practise law; his slender means were almost all gathered from teaching; and he could not teach any more than he did.  And this consciousness he carried about with him, to the office, to market, and to his little sister’s presence.  For her his face was always the same; and while she had it Winnie thought little was wanting to her life.

One morning when she had it not, she was lying wearily stretched out on the couch which was hers by day and Winthrop’s by night.  It was early June; the sun was paying his first instalment of summer heat, and doing it as if he were behind-hand with pay-day.  Winnie’s attic roof gave her a full share of his benefits.  The hours of the morning had worn away, when towards noon a slow step was heard ascending the stairs.  It was her hostess, come up to look after her.

“All alone?” said Mrs. Nettley.

“Oh yes! —­” came with most fervent breath from Winnie.  Her head uneasily turned the other cheek to the pillow.

“Poor child!” said Mrs. Nettley; and every line of her careful and sympathetic face said it over again.  “Poor child! —­ And Mr. Winthrop’s been away all the morning!”

“I don’t know why you call me poor,” said Winnie, whose nerves could not bear even that slight touch, if it happened to touch the wrong way; —­ “Of course he’s been away all the morning —­ he always is.”

“And you’re tired.  I didn’t mean poor, dear, in the way that I am poor myself; —­ not that poor, —­ I only meant, —­ because you were so much here all alone without your brother.”

“I know what you meant,” said Winnie.

“It’s hot up here, isn’t it,” said Mrs. Nettley going to the window.  “Dreadful.  It’s hot down stairs too.  Can’t we let a little air in?” —­

“Don’t!  It’s hotter with it.”

Mrs. Nettley left the window and came and stood by Winnie’s couch, her face again saying what her voice did not dare to say, —­ “Poor child!” —­

“Mrs. Nettley —­”

“What, my love?”

“I’m very cross —­”

“No you aren’t, my love! you’re only tired.”

“I’m very cross —­ I don’t know what makes me so —­ but sometimes I feel so it seems as if I couldn’t help it.  I’m cross even to Winthrop.  I’m very much obliged to you, but you must think I aint.”

“I don’t think the least thing of the kind, dearest —­ I know it’s miserable and suffocating up here, and you can’t feel —­ I wish I could make it better for you!”

“O it’ll be better by and by —­ when Governor gets home and it grows cool.”

“Come down and take a bit of dinner with me.”

“O no, thank you, Mrs. Nettley,” said Winnie brightening up, —­ “I don’t want anything; and Governor’ll be home by and by and then we’ll have our dinner.  I’m going to broil the chicken and get everything ready.”