“She doesn’t say a word about father’s being ill,” said Maria.

“Of course she doesn’t!  She knew perfectly well that if she did you would go home whether or no; or maybe she hasn’t got eyes for anything aside from herself to see that he is sick.”

Maria grew so uneasy about her father that she engaged a substitute and went home two days before her vacation actually commenced.  She sent a telegram, saying that she was coming, and on what train she should arrive.  Evelyn met her at the station in Edgham.  She had grown, and was nearly as tall as Maria, although only a child.  She was fairly dancing with pleasurable expectation on the platform, with the uncertain grace of a butterfly over a rose, when Maria caught sight of her.  Evelyn was a remarkably beautiful little girl.  She had her mother’s color and dimples, with none of her hardness.  Her forehead, for some odd reason, was high and serious, like Maria’s own, and Maria’s own mother’s.  Her dark hair was tied with a crisp white bow, and she was charmingly dressed in red from head to foot—­a red frock, red coat, and red hat.  Ida could at least plead, in extenuation of her faults of life, that she had done her very best to clothe those around her with beauty and grace.  When Maria got off the car, Evelyn made one leap towards her, and her slender, red-clad arms went around her neck.  She hugged and kissed her with a passionate fervor odd to see in a child.  Her charming face was all convulsed with emotion.

“Oh, sister!” she said.  “Oh, sister!”

Maria kissed her fondly.  “Sister’s darling,” she said.  Then she put her gently away.  “Sister has to get out her trunk-check and see to getting a carriage,” she said.

“Mamma has gone to New York,” said Evelyn, “and papa has not got home yet.  He comes on the next train.  He told me to come and meet you.”

Maria, after she had seen to her baggage and was seated in the livery carriage with Evelyn, asked how her father was.  “Is father ill, dear?” she said.

Evelyn looked at her with surprise.  “Why, no, sister, I don’t think so,” she replied.  “Mamma hasn’t said anything about it, and I haven’t heard papa say anything, either.”

“Does he go to New York every day?”

“Yes, of course,” said Evelyn.  The little girl had kept looking at her sister with loving, adoring eyes.  Now she suddenly cuddled up close to her and thrust her arm through Maria’s.  “Oh, sister!” she said, half sobbingly again.

“There, don’t cry, sister’s own precious,” Maria said, kissing the little, glowing face on her shoulder.  She realized all at once how hard the separation had been from her sister.  “Are you glad to have me home?” she asked.