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.
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