Joyce was sitting in the big arm-chair with her hands clasped across her knees, gazing into the fire.
Captain Forrester sat at the old spinet—our best new piano was in the front parlor—and touched its poor old clanging keys gently, and sang soft notes to it in his soft, mellow voice. They were passionate love-songs, as I now know; but the words were in foreign tongues, and I did not understand them; no doubt Joyce did. He rose when I came in, and asked what o'clock it was.
I told him, and he laughed his gay, sympathetic laugh, and declared that at the Grange he never knew what the time was; he believed we kept our clocks all wrong. Then he said that he could not wait any longer for father that evening, but would come to see him in the morning. He went up to Joyce, and held out his hand. She shook herself, as though to rouse herself from a dream, and rose. This time it was no mistake of mine. Captain Forrester held Joyce's hand a long while.
"Good-bye—till to-morrow morning," said he, in a low voice.
She did not answer, and he turned to me.
"Good-night, Miss Margaret," he said, and there was a ring in his voice—an impressiveness even towards me—which seemed to say that something particular had happened.
When he was gone, I felt that I must know what it was. This barrier of reserve between two sisters was ridiculous.
"Joyce," said I, half impatiently, "have you nothing to tell me?"
She looked up at me. A flush spread itself all over her neck and face, her short upper lip trembled a little—it always did with any emotion.
"Yes," answered she, simply; "Captain Forrester wants to marry me."