THE winter in Pittsburgh passed rapidly. For Jean it was a happy year despite much hard work at school, German lessons with Fräulein, and long hours of piano practising. It seemed as if the scales and finger exercises were endless and sometimes the girl wondered which had the more fate—she who was forced to drum the same old things over and over, or poor Uncle Tom who had to listen when she was doing it. And yet as she looked back over her busy days she realized that she neither studied nor practised all the time. No, there was many a good time in her routine. For example, there was the Shakespeare play at the school, a performance of "As You Like It," in which Jean herself took the part of "Rosalind." This was an excitement indeed! Uncle Tom became so interested that he got out his book and spent several evenings coaching the leading lady, as he called the girl; one night he even went so far as to impersonate "Orlando," and he and Jean gave a dress in the library, greatly to Giusippe's delight and amusement. This set them all to reading Shakespeare aloud, and going to a number of presentations of the dramas then being given in the city. To the young people all this was new and wonderful, for up to the present they had been little to the theater.  
In the meantime Giusippe was also having his struggles. It was a rushing season at the factory, there being many large orders to fill; the mill hummed night and day and in consequence the scores of glass-makers looked happy and prosperous. No one was out of employment or on half pay, and none of the workmen Christmas because there was nothing to put in the kiddies' stockings.
 
With Christmas came Uncle Bob and oh, what a holiday there was then! Was ever a Christmas tree so beautiful, or a Christmas dinner so delicious? Giusippe brought his aunt and uncle to the great house, and in the evening there was a dance for Jean and some of her school friends. Uncle Bob, who was in the gayest of spirits, danced with all the girls; introduced everybody to everybody; and brought heaping plates of salad to the dancers. There seemed to be nothing he could not do from putting up Christmas greens to playing the piano until the belated musicians arrived. The party could never had been given without him, that was certain. It was a Christmas long to be remembered!
 
And when he left the next morning it was with the understanding that Jean should return to Boston the first of May. Uncle Tom looked pretty grave when he was reminded that the days of his niece's stay with him were numbered; and it was amusing to hear him use the very arguments that Uncle Bob had voiced when Jean had left Boston for Pittsburgh months before.
 
"It isn't as if the child was never coming back," he told Giusippe. "Her home is here; she is only going to Boston for her vacation. We should be selfish indeed to her a few weeks at the seashore. Pittsburgh is rather warm in summer."
 
Thus Uncle Tom consoled himself, and as the days flew past tried to put out of his mind the day of parting.
 
Then came May and with it a very unexpected happening. Jean's trunk was packed, and she was all ready to leave for the East, when Uncle Tom was taken sick.
 
"I doubt if it is anything but overwork and fatigue," said the doctor. "Mr. Curtis has, I find, been carrying a great deal of care this winter. It is good to do a rushing business, of course, but when one has to rush along with it the wear and tear on the nerves is pretty severe."
 
"You don't think he will be ill long, do you?" questioned Jean anxiously.
 
"I cannot tell. Such cases are uncertain. He just needs rest—to give up work for a while and stay at home. Recreation, diversion, amusement—that's what he wants. Read to him; motor with him; walk with him; keep him entertained. Things like that will do far more good than medicine."
 
"But—but—I'm—I'm going away to-morrow for the rest of the summer," Jean.
 
"Away? Humph! That's unfortunate."
 
"Why, you don't really think I am any use here, do you? Enough use to remain, I mean," the girl inquired in surprise. "Uncle Tom doesn't—you don't mean that he needs me; that I could do good by staying?"
 
A flush overspread her face. That any one should need her! And most of all such a big strong man as Uncle Tom. The idea was unbelievable. Hitherto life had been a matter of what others should do for her. She had been a child with no obligations save to do as she was told. Her two uncles whom she loved so much had discussed her fate and between them what her course should be. Now, all at once, there was no pilot at the wheel. The directing of the ship fell to her guidance. In the space of those few moments, as if by a miracle, Jean Cabot ceased to be a child and became a woman.
 
"Mr. Curtis is very fond of you, isn't he?" asked the physician. "He will miss you if you are not here, I am afraid. Who else is there in the house to be a companion for him?"
 
"No one but Fräulein, and of course she is getting older and is not very strong."
 
"Unfortunate!" repeated the doctor.
 
"It is not at all necessary for me to go to-morrow," Jean said quickly. "I can it and stay here just as well as not, and I think it would be much better if I did." She with deepening conviction. "I'll telegraph my uncle in Boston and explain to him that I cannot leave just now."
 
What a deal of dignity stole into that single word "cannot."
 
At last there was a duty to fulfil toward some one else—some one who really needed her. Jean repeated the amazing fact over and over to herself. She had a place to fill. She and Uncle Tom had reversed ............