'
"'Han'some as a picter,' I tol' him; 'an' cutes' little tyke y'ever see.'"
"How is Mother?" asked Helen constrainedly.
"Ma's lottin' on havin' ye home; wants t' hear all 'bout the good times.
School done? All packed and ready for a start, ain't ye? But ye don't seem
to be feeling any too good. Don't New York agree with ye, Sissy? Been
studying too hard?"
"She is a goot organism; New York agrees vit her," I said. "Wasn't that
how poor old Darmstetter put it, Nelly? Mr. Winship, Nelly has overworked,
but with your consent, she is about to let a tyrannical husband take care
of her."
At my heedless mention of Darmstetter, Helen's white face grew whiter. Her
trembling hand strayed, seeking support.
"Al'ays s'posed you'n' Sis'd be marryin' some day," said Mr. Winship,
dubiously watching her, while he stroked his beard; "but seems mos's if
ye'd better wait a spell, till Ma's chirked her up some. Han'some place
here."
His eyes examined the luxurious, disordered room.
"These here things ain't yourn, Sis?"
"Not all of them."
"I ain't refusin' to let Sis marry, if ye're both sot on't," he conceded.
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