"Of all those we shall lose this year she is the one we shall miss most," the younger woman murmured, deferentially.
"Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shall hold her up to the new ones."
And at this the good sister appeared to find her spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.
"It is not certain that you will lose her; nothing is settled yet," the host rejoined, quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself.
"We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us."
"Oh," exclaimed the gentleman, with more vivacity than he had yet used, "it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her always!"
"Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, "good as she is, she is made for the world. Le monde y gagnera."
"If all the good people were hidden away in convents, how would the world get on?" her companion softly inquired, rising also. This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying comfortably—
"Fortunately there are good people everywhere."
"If you are going there will be two less here," her host remarked, gallantly.
For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion was speedily covered by the return of the young
