life—and no more have any of the incidents that led up to him. You 've had a very bad time of it, poor little girl, and now ⸺"
"Oh, I haven't," I exclaimed. "I 've been happier than ever before in my life. That is—I—it was all so novel, and like a play ⸺"
"Well, now the play 's over," Jack broke in, pitying my evident embarrassment. "I wanted to ask you if you 'd let me advise and perhaps help you. We have been brother and sister, you know. Nothing can take that away from us."
"No," said I, in a queer little voice. "Nothing can."
"You want to go to England, I know," he went on. "And—if you 'll forgive my taking liberties, you have n't much money in hand, you 've almost told me. I suppose you have n't changed your mind about your relations in Paris? You would n't like to go back to them, or write, and tell them firmly that you won't marry the person they seem to have set their hearts on for you? That you 've made your own choice, and intend to abide by it; but that if they 'll be sensible and receive you, you 're willing to stop with them until—until the man in England ⸺"
"What man in England?" I cut him short, in utter bewilderment.
"Why, the—er—you didn't tell me his name, of course, but that rich chap you expected to meet when you got over to England. Don't you think it would be better if he came to you at your cousins', if they ⸺"
"There is n't any 'rich chap'," I exclaimed. "I don't know what you mean—oh, yes, I do, too. I did speak about someone who was very rich, and would be kind to
