that his master would really be at home before the end of
the week. He made his own plans accordingly, although he hurried Henri
relentlessly with the cleaning.

As soon as Joyce heard the news she made an excuse to slip away, and ran
down to the field to Jules. She found him paler than usual, and there
was a swollen look about his eyes that made her think that maybe he had
been crying.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you glad that your uncle is
coming home?"

Jules gave a cautious glance over his shoulder towards the house, and
then looked up at Joyce. Heretofore, some inward monitor of pride had
closed his lips about himself whenever he had been with her, but, since
the Thanksgiving Day that had made them such firm friends, he had wished
every hour that he could tell her of his troubles. He felt that she was
the only person in the world who took any interest in him. Although she
was only three years older than himself, she had that motherly little
way with her that eldest daughters are apt to acquire when there is a
whole brood of little brothers and sisters constantly claiming
attention.

So when Joyce asked again, "What's the matter, Jules?" with so much
anxious sympathy in her face and voice, the child found himself blurting
out the truth.

"Brossard beat me again last night," he exclaimed. Then, in response to
her indignant exclamation, he poured out the whole story of his
ill-treatment. "See here!" he cried, in conclusion, unbuttoning his
blouse and baring his thin little shoulders. Great red welts lay across
them, and one arm was blue with a big mottled bruise.

Joyce shivered and closed her eyes an instant to shut out the sight that
brought the quick tears of sympathy.

"Oh, you poor little thing!" she cried. "I'm going to tell madame."

"No, don't!" begged Jules. "If Brossard ever found out that I had told
anybody, I believe that he would half kill me. He punishes me for the
least thing. I had no breakfast this morning because I dropped an old
plate and broke it."

"Do you mean to say," cried Joyce, "that you have been out here in the
field since sunrise without a bite to eat?"

Jules nodded.

"Then I'm going straight home to get you something." Before he could
answer she was darting over the fields like a little flying squirrel.

"Oh, what if it were Jack!" she kept repeating as she ran. "Dear old
Jack, beaten and starved, without anybody to love him or say a kind
word to him." The me