"And so you go about hand-in-hand."
"My dear, we never do."
"I mean, metaphorically, visiting your precious people, hob-nobbing with them, drinking mild tea, in their gossipy bowers."
"Thank you, we do not gossip. We have always something practical to do."
"Yes, and something very impracticable to perform—to be about, always together, a handsome, over-affectionate pair of enthusiasts. Loving all the world, you are never to lose your hearts to each other. Very probable!"
"Of course we shall not. I have, as you know, liked Frank since he was a boy. We are as brother and sister—that is all."
"Why, you are all in all to each other already. You think you are living for these people, you are existing for one another."
"Hilda, it is unkind of you to speak so," said Maud, with some feeling, as she began to roll up her score of varied-shaped calico. "I must go now."
"Not with a frown on your sweet face," said her sister, imprinting a kiss on the smooth brow.
Left to herself, Hilda sat down and pondered.
"It is my duty," she murmured to herself, "for his sake, for all our sakes, for Larry's. Yes, I will do it now, before I relent."
Seizing a piece of note-paper, she hurriedly penned the note she had thought upon many a day. It ran thus—
August 1891.
"Dear Miss Elms,
"Our brother's attentions have not escaped us. We know that he is the soul of honour, and that you
