She bent her face to her knees and began to cry simply and
passionately. At that Pete found it easy to forget himself. He put
his arm very carefully about her, laying one of his hands on her bent
head and stroking her hair.

"You have a brother," he said. "Right here."

The dark small silken head shook. "No. You don't like me."

"I do--I do. Please tell me everything you feel like telling; I'd
like awfully to help you, to understand, to listen to you. You see,
you've been so much with Hugh, I haven't had a chance to know you
as he does. And I guess--well--maybe I'm sort of shy."

She lifted her head at that, took his stroking hand and held it in
both of hers under her chin, as a little girl holds her pet kitten
for the pleasure of its warmth. "You must get over being shy with
me, Pete. We both love Hugh; we both admire him so. I'd so love to
talk to you about him--"

"Then do, Sylvie."

"I've never seen him," she sighed, "and you can see him all day long,
Pete; will you try your best now to describe Hugh to me--every bit
of him? Tell me the color of his eyes and the shape of his face
and--everything. Tell me all you remember about him always."

"I--I'm no good at that, Sylvie. A fellow you see all day long--why,
you don't know what he looks like, 'specially if he's your own
brother."