'Look at Harry,' said Alaric; 'I know from the motion of his shoulder that he is at this moment saying something very tender.'
'It is ten times more likely that they are quarrelling,' said Linda.
'Oh! the quarrels of lovers—we know all about that, don't we?'
'You must not call them lovers, Alaric; mamma would not like it, nor indeed would Gertrude, I am sure.'
'I would not for the world do anything that Mrs. Woodward would not like; but between ourselves, Linda, are they not lovers?'
'No; that is, not that I know of. I don't believe that they are a bit,' said Linda, blushing at her own fib.
'And why should they not be? How indeed is it possible that they should not be; that is—for I heartily beg Gertrude's pardon—how is it possible that Harry should not be in love with her?'
'Indeed, Gertrude is very, very beautiful,' said Linda, with the faintest possible sigh, occasioned by the remembrance of her own inferior charms.
'Indeed she is, very, very beautiful,' repeated Alaric, speaking with an absent air as though his mind were fully engaged in thinking of the beauty of which he spoke.
It was not in Linda's nature to be angry because her sister was admired, and because she was not. But yet there was something in Alaric's warm tone of admiration which gave her a feeling of unhappiness which she would have been quite unable to define, even had she attempted it. She saw her sister and Harry Norman before her, and she knew in her heart that they were lovers, in spite of her little weak declaration to the contrary. She saw how earnestly her sister was loved, and she in her kindly loving nature could not but envy her fancied happiness. Envy—no—it certainly was not envy. She would not for worlds have robbed her sister of her admirer; but it was so natural for her to feel that it must be delicious to be admired!