paused, and looked at me with a heightened color.

"And what then?" I asked, rather crossly, for there was a flaw in
her speech somewhere, and I could not find it out.

"We shall see, my wise little sister," she said, letting go my arm
with a kind pressure. "See, here is St. Barnabas; is it not a dear
old building? Must you go back to Jack?"

"Yes, I must," I answered, shortly. "_Laborare est orare_--to
labor is to pray, in my case, Carrie;" and with that I left her.

But Carrie's arguments had seriously discomposed me. I longed to
talk it all out with Allan, and I do not think I ever missed him so
much as I did that day. I am afraid I was rather impatient with Jack
that morning; to be sure she was terribly awkward and inattentive;
she would put her elbows on the table, and ink her fingers, and then
she had a way of jerking her hair out of her eyes, which drove me
nearly frantic. I began to think we really must send her to school.
We had done away with the folding doors, they always creaked so, and
had hung up some curtains in their stead; through the folds I could
catch glimpses of dear mother leaning back in her chair, with Dot
beside her. He was spelling over his lesson to her, in a queer,
little sing-song voice, and they looked so cool and quiet that the
contrast was quite provoking; and there was Carrie kneeling in some
dim corner, and soothing her perturbed spirits with softly-uttered
psalms and prayers.

"Jack," I returned, for the sixth time, "I cannot have you kick the
table in that schoolboy fashion."