"Poor lad!" I heard the old voice murmur again as I closed the door.
"Father's sorry," said I, as I turned round and faced my sister.
"Yes," said she; "of course. Who could help being sorry?"
"Some folk seem to be able to help it very well," laughed I. "I couldn't have sat there discussing with another man how my lover had nearly come by his death! At least I can scarcely fancy that I could. Of course I'm not engaged to be married to anybody, so perhaps I don't know how I should feel."
Joyce looked at me aghast. "Good gracious, Meg!" said she, in a half-frightened whisper, "what is the matter?"
I suppose my face had told her something of what I was feeling; I suppose it had become white, and the gray eyes were black in it, as father used to declare they were wont to become when I was angry.
"The matter?" cried I. "Oh, there's nothing the matter. Only I was a little surprised to see how coolly you took the news of Frank's accident."
"Why, what was I to say?" said she. "I am very sorry, and I sincerely trust that it is nothing serious."
"Well," answered I, scornfully, "I should think you would feel as much as that if Joe Millet had been run away with by the old dray-horse, or even if Luck were to have a fit. I'm sure I should. I was afraid you would be very unhappy when I brought you that bad piece of news. I was afraid you would be quite upset. I didn't know whether I ought to tell you before a stranger, but I needn't have troubled myself. You took it very well. Perhaps poor Frank would have been a little hurt to see how well you took it."
"I don't know what right you have to speak to me like that, Meg," said my sister, in a low voice. "How do you know what I feel? People aren't all alike. You take things very hard. You must have everything your own way, or else you fight and struggle. But I'm not like that. I believe that whatever happens is all for the best. Why can't you let me take things my own way?"