Blue-Bird Weather

"Yes, I do! Anyway, a fellow doesn't want another fellow to think he

washes dishes."

"You darling! Forgive me. I wasn't thinking. It was too stupid of me."

"It really was," said the boy, in his sweet, dignified voice, "and I'd

been telling him that I'd shot ducks, too."

His sister caught him around the neck and kissed his blonde head. "I'm

so sorry, Jim. He won't think of it again. If he does, he'll only

respect a boy who is so good to his sister. And," she added,

cautioning him with lifted finger, "don't talk too much to him, Jim, no

matter how nice and kind he is. I know how lonely you are and how

pleasant it is to talk to a man like Mr. Marche; but remember that

father doesn't wish us to say anything about ourselves or about him, so

we must be careful."

"Why doesn't father want us to speak about him or ourselves to Mr.

Marche?" asked the boy.

His sister had gone back to her dishes. Now, looking around over her

shoulder, she said seriously, "That is father's affair, dear, not ours."

"But don't you know why?"

"Shame on you, Jim! What father cares to tell us he will tell us; but

it's exceedingly bad manners to ask."

"Is father really very ill?"

"I told you that to ask me such things is improper," said the girl,

coloring. "He has told us that he does not feel well, and that he

prefers to remain in his room for a few days. That is enough for us,

isn't it?"

"Yes," said the boy thoughtfully.