fancy! papa's just condemned it--says it won't do; and they've got to
build another."

An impatient sigh from Christie drew Jessie's attention to her troubled
eyebrows.

"Don't worry about our disappointment, dear. It isn't so very great. I
dare say we'll be able to get along here in some way, until papa is rich
again. You know they intend to make him share with them."

"It strikes me that he is sharing with them already," said Christie,
glancing bitterly round the cabin; "sharing everything--ourselves, our
lives, our tastes."

"Ye-e-s!" said Jessie, with vaguely hesitating assent. "Yes, even
these:" she showed two dice in the palm of her little hand. "I found 'em
in the drawer of our dressing-table."

"Throw them away," said Christie impatiently.

But Jessie's small fingers closed over the dice. "I'll give them to the
little Kearney. I dare say they were the poor boy's playthings."

The appearance of these relics of wild dissipation, however, had lifted
Christie out of her sublime resignation. "For Heaven's sake, Jessie,"
she said, "look around and see if there is anything more!"

To make sure, they each began to scrimmage; the broken-spirited Christie
exhibiting both alacrity and penetration in searching obscure corners.
In the dining-room, behind the dresser, three or four books were