"I should think a little girl would love to help her brother."
"I don't!" cried Sara. "I hate helping him! I've always hated helping him! He makes me carry the empty kettle all the way"—here her voice broke again—"and he—he! What does he do? Flings stones at telegraph posts, and all the way up don't speak to me,—don't look at me—and I come dragging the pail and he never looking or speaking! I hate to help him!" she concluded with tense savageness.
Tom cut short the whole business as though with a knife.
"Both of you start along, and no more words about it!" and he too left the room.
