she said, "and I hate you
all. I never wanted to come here--they made me come--and I shan't stay
if I can help it. I shall run away, and take Frances."

Little Frances, meanwhile, clung crying to her sister, who went on
talking so wildly and passionately that Jane thought it better to make
a move to the lavatory with the younger children, and leave the new
girls for a time to themselves.

A great change passed over poor Kate's face when she and her sister
were once more alone together. The passion left it, and was replaced
by a melancholy smile. She sat down on the bed, took her little
sister's hand, and looked long into her face.

"Are you much hurt, darling?" she said, at length.

"Not so badly, but I made a great noise, didn't I!"

Kate did not answer, but wrapping a petticoat round the child, lifted
her out of bed.

"Now, Frances, darling, come with me to the window, and I will show you
the prettiest sight you ever saw, and we will forget all our troubles.
Look at the roofs with the snow on them, and the moon making such
strange, pale lights on the snow. Look at the icicles--did you ever
see such lovely ones! Look at the trees--every tiniest little branch
covered with frost! Look at the pictures the frost has made upon the
window,--see, there are forests,--and oh, more wonderful things than I
could tell.

"Nobody loves you and me, Frances. We've only got each other,--and I
hate everybody but you (you needn't do that though). But I am glad
things are so pretty. One might almost think that somebody had loved
you and me, and cared to make everything so pretty to please us!"
Kate's eyes softened as she said this,--she had beautiful eyes, large
and dark. The rest of her face was plain: it showed much strength of
purpose, but little feeling. Poor Kate! the furrows on her forehead,
the old, sad smile, so unlike a child's, and the bony hands, told of
much hard work, much care, and deep and painful anxieties in the past.
She was sitting on the window ledge, half supporting little Frances in
her arms. It was no new attitude to Kate. Her figure was stunted and
slightly bent from the efforts she had made years ago to carry her
little sister about; but the weight of little Frances had rested upon
her in another way also, and it was perhaps owing to her brave efforts
to shield the child from evil and from grief that the contrast in
appearance was so marked between the two sisters. Frances with her
soft lit