She turned and gave me a queer, sarcastic sort of look.
"Rest up!" she echoed scornfully. "I'd go crazy and jump down into the plum trees."
"That's what comes of getting overtired," said I.
"Oh!" snapped Rosalie—"is it?"
She stood under the glow of the tall reading lamp, nervously straightening the books and papers on the centre table. Her chestnut hair, which was full of natural waves, glowed and glistened like spun gold as she moved her head. She turned her back to me, and I couldn't help noticing how sweetly her pretty little neck rose from the fold of the kimono. Her restless hands stole in and out among the papers; and then, as I watched her thoughtfully, the rounded shoulders gave a little heave, there was the sound of a smothered sob and her bare arms slipped up out of the flowing sleeves as she covered her face with both hands.
"Rosalie!" said I sharply, and sprang up from the divan where I was sitting.
She turned away from me. The sobs came quickly and noiselessly.
My friend, I've seen some harrowing things in my sinful life, but I don't know when I've been so upset as I was at the sight of that little girl, sobbing quietly under the lamp. Even though it were no more than a combination of heat and overwork and insufficient sleep—and the chance of losing a friend who had grown companionable—it was mighty pathetic. Women or children in trouble always hit me hard; and the next moment I was standing beside Rosalie,
