“I might say the same to you, if it were not treason to utter anything so uncomplimentary to a fair lady,” observed Bruce.
“Why do you look ill? Has—has anything painful occurred?” asked Emmie, in a hurried, nervous manner.
“I must act echo again,” answered Bruce.
“Tell me, oh, tell me what has happened,” urged his sister, who was not in the slightest degree disposed to enter into a jest.
“Nothing has happened, dear Emmie,” replied Bruce more gravely. “I have had a little headache these one or two days; it is of no consequence. You have not the least occasion to look so miserably anxious as far as I am concerned.”
To the young man’s surprise, his sister’s eyes filled and then brimmed over with tears. Emmie leaned her brow against his shoulder, and drops fell fast on the sleeve of his arm, which she was pressing with a nervous grasp.
“My dear Emmie, what can be the cause of all this sorrow? What ails you?” asked Bruce, grieved at the sight of distress for which he could not account.
“Oh, Bruce!” sobbed Emmie, pressing her brother’s arm yet more closely, “promise me—promise me—” She stopped short, as if afraid to finish her sentence.
“What would you have me promise?” asked Bruce.
Emmie gave no direct reply, but inquired abruptly, “Have you a bell in your room?”