HE second evening after Reginald's accident, Mr. Fairfax sat down by his cot, and taking up his little brown hand, said cheerily, “Well, Master Regie, we shall need to have a nurse for you.”

“I should think I was rather too old for that, sick or well,” replied Regie, biting his lip, lest unruly tears should betray that he was not so very old after all.

“Why, Reginald,” laughed Mr. Fairfax, “grown-up people have nurses when they break their legs, and are glad enough to get them. Your mamma Fairfax will never be able to do all that must be done for you, and Dr. Delano knows of a splendid nurse. He is sure you will like her, and he would be glad to have her come here to the seashore for a while. He says it will do her good as well as you.”

So it happened that Sister Julia arrived the very next day, and Regie grew fond of her in almost less time than it takes to tell it. He thought she had the sweetest face he had ever seen, and a good many other people thought so too. She always wore a pretty cap, a little square shawl, and a long full apron, all made of the same soft, white material.

“Of course,” thought Regie, “it's all right for a nurse to wear an apron, and I know some children have French nurses with caps; but Sister Julia is not French, and besides, what's the use of the little shawl?” and as was usual when he did not thoroughly understand anything, he soon made inquiries on the subject.

Sister Julia was sitting at the east window of Regie's room, watching two schooners far out at sea, whose sails, aglow with the red light of the sunset, made them look like fairy boats of conkshell. “Oh, Regie!” she said, at last, earnestly, “I never saw the ocean as beautiful as it is to-night. I wish you were able to have me lift you up, so that you could have a look at it.”

“I would rather look at you any day,” Regie said, honestly, “because you do look lovely in those white fixings, but I do not see very much sense in 'em.”

“I'm afraid there isn't very much sense in them, Regie; only that we all wear them.”

“All your family?”

“Yes, all my family. And how many do you suppose there are of us?” Regie looked mystified. “There are seventy-five.” Regie looked incredulous, but he had a foolish notion of never liking to appear astonished at anything, so he said quite casually, as though he were asking the most commonplace question, “And are you the oldest of seventy-five?”

“Do you think I look old enough for that?”

“No, not exactly, but your hair is pretty gray, and no one that's young has gray hair, you know.”

“You are not far from right, Regie, but gray hair or no, I am not the oldest of my seventy-five sisters. Have you never heard of a Sisterhood,—that is, of a society of women who bind themselves together for some sort of work?”

“Oh yes, often,” said Regie, not meaning to be untruthful, but because always averse to pleading ignorance on any subject. At any rate, if he had heard of a sisterhood his ideas were somewhat vague regarding it.

“Well, I belong to such a society, and all who join it pledge themselves to follow its rules, to take the title of Sister, and to wear these white fixings as you call them, and the work of our society is to care for the sick.”

“Have you got to do it all your life?” he asked, shaking his brown head from side to side by way of sympathy.

“No, we are not obliged to do it always. We can resign at any time, but most of us love the work so much, that it would be a great trial to give it up.”

Regie did not speak for several seconds, then he said, timidly, “Would you not like to be married, Sister Julia?”

“Well, Regie, that depends,” she answered, with an amused smile.

“I should think some one would have wanted you. Did nobody ever?”

“These are pretty plain questions, Regie,” said Sister Julia, as indeed they were; and then Regie suddenly remembered that Mamma Fairfax had told him, and but a little while ago, too, that he must get the better of this questioning trick of his.

“I did not think you would mind,” he said, and his voice trembled a little.

“Oh no, dear! Of course I don't mind; only you see it might be rather embarrassing to have to own up that nobody ever had wanted me.”

“But I know somebody did, because——” Regie paused a second, for he was not sure he ought to tell this; but his desire got the better of his judgment, as often happens with older people, “because I overheard Dr. Delano tell Papa Fairfax that somebody did want you, but that you sent him away 'cause you thought you'd better care for sick children.”

“It does not matter much, Regie, whether all that is true or not; but I think we have talked quite long enough about me. Let us talk about you a little while.”

“Oh, there's nothing particular about me, 'cept that I'm adopted. I suppose you know that, everybody does,” with a little sigh, as though he wished everybody didn't.

“Yes, I know; but I do not believe Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax could love you more if you were their own little boy.”

“I am their own little boy, too. I mean, I mean——” and without a word of warning Regie burst into tears.

An unusually sweet look of sympathy came into Sister Julia's face just then, as she moved her rocking-chair close to the cot, and began stroking Regie's hair, for he was crying too hard for her to attempt to reason with him. Her heart went straight out to this high-strung, sensitive boy, and she was sorry enough in any way to have grieved him. By-and-by, when the tears were somewhat under control, he said, with a little convulsive sob between every two or three words——

“I know you did not mean to say anything, but I could not help crying. Some folks, you know, thinks there isn't any good in adopted children. It's an awful pity fellows can't choose their own fathers and mothers; I'd have chosen Papa and Mamma Fairfax every time, and then I could have called them just papa and mamma the way other children do. I do wish they'd never told me about it,” and the tears threatened to overflow again.

“Ah, Regie,” said Sister Julia, quietly, “you know that they have taught you to call them Papa and Mamma Fairfax only because they feel they have no right to the very same names as you would have used for your own father and mother, if they had lived.”

“Yes, I know,” he answered, sadly.

“Regie, I would like to tell you a story. Do you feel like listening?”

A sort of little after-sob helped to give Regie's head a forward shake which meant, yes, he would like to listen.

“Well, about thirty years ago, a little girl was left quite alone in the world. Her father, a young physician, and her mother, were both taken away in one week by a terrible fever, which had broken out in the village in which they lived. At first there seemed to be no one to care for the little girl, but after a while a lady, whose baby had died with the fever, offered to take her; and oh, how kind she was to her for years and years, and the little girl never dreamed that she was not her very own mother. Well, it happened one day at school, when the little girl was twelve years old, that an unkind boy called to her: 'Say, Julia, you're only adopted, aren't you?' Only adopted, what could he mean? The words kept ringing in Julia's heart, and at recess she slipped away and ran home as fast as she could.”

“'It is not true that I am only adopted, is it, mamma?' she said, as she rushed into the house.”

“'Yes, yes, it is true,' said her mother, sadly; 'but who has told you about it, Julia?' The little girl did not answer; she cried and cried and could not be comforted. 'Why did you not tell me yourself, mamma?' she sobbed over and over again.” Sister Julia paused a moment to run the window shade up to the top, so that Regie could see the evening star growing bright in the deepening twilight.

“I should not wonder,” said Regie, “if we were talking about you again, Sister Julia.”

“I should not wonder if we were, so you see I know just how to feel for you; only I think it is better always to have known the facts as you have done, than to have it come suddenly upon one, and perhaps as roughly as it did upon me.”

Regie laid his hand over in Sister Julia's lap, “I'm awfully glad you were adopted,” he said, stroking her hand affectionately.

“Why, dear child?”

“Oh, because—well—I shall never be ashamed of it now, I guess. I used to think it was kind of disgraceful, and that it made a difference in a fellow's looks somehow; but I'm sure it doesn't in yours.”

“Oh, Regie! what a foolish notion,” and Sister Julia laughed merrily.

“I did though,” said Regie, “really.”

“Do you know, Regie, I think you ought to be one of the happiest children in the world, and you yourself know why.”

“Well, I suppose,” said Regie, thoughtfully, “that I ought to remember how different it would have been if they had not taken me, and that ought to make me very happy; and, Sister Julia, I am happy, almost always. Anyhow, I guess I'll never be unhappy again about being adopted. I do love Papa and Mamma Fairfax dearly; nobody knows how much,” and Regie's face glowed and his eyes kindled with loyal affection. Speaking of eyes, a promise at the end of the last chapter must not be forgotten. Regie owed a particular debt to these brown eyes and long lashes of his, because when he was but a little baby, and while his own mother was living, they had won his way right into Mrs. Fairfax's heart, and so, when he was left an orphan, what more natural than that they should win his way right into her arms as well.