"I can't," repeated the girl. "you can't help me!"

Winthrop smiled at her confidently.

"I'm going to try," he said.

"No, please!" begged the girl. Her voice was still shaken with
tears. She motioned with her head toward the room behind her.

"These are my people," she declared defiantly, as though daring
him to contradict her. "And they are good people! They've tried
to be good friends to me, and they've been true to me."

Winthrop came toward her and stood beside her, so close that he
could have placed his hand upon her shoulder. He wondered,
whimsically, if she knew how cruel she seemed in appealing with
her tears, her helplessness and loveliness to what was generous
and chivalric in him; and, at the same time, by her words,
treating him as an interloper and an enemy.

"That's all right," he said gently. "But that doesn't prevent my
being a good friend to you, too, does it? Or," he added, his
voice growing tense and conscious -- "my being true to you? My
sisters will be here tomorrow," he announced briskly.

Vera had wearily dropped her arms upon the table and lowered her
head upon them. From a place down in the depths she murmured a
protest.

"No," contradicted Winthrop cheerfully, "this time you are going