“What is the matter?” she asked tenderly. “What has happened? Your uncle—your family—all well? Why are you weeping?”
I could not answer; but I kept my hands clasped over the miniature, that she might not see what they contained.
“Will you not answer? Am I not your friend,—almost your sister? Come, shall I call mamma?”
“Yes—yes; go—go.”
“No, I will not go yet. What have you there? What are you hiding?”
And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took mine; and so—and so—the picture became visible! There was a dead silence. I looked up through my tears. Fanny had recoiled some steps, and her cheek was very flushed, her eyes downcast. I felt as if I had committed a crime, as if dishonor clung to me; and yet I repressed—yes, thank Heaven! I repressed the cry that swelled from my heart and rushed to my lips: “Pity me, for I love you!” I repressed it, and only a groan escaped me,—the wail of my lost happiness! Then, rising, I laid the miniature on the table, and said, in a voice that I believe was firm,—
“Miss Trevanion, you have been as kind as a sister to me, and therefore I was bidding a brother’s farewell to your likeness; it is so like you—this!”
“Farewell!” echoed Fanny, still not looking up.
“Farewell—sister! There, I have boldly said the word; for—for—” I hurried to the door, and, there turning, added, with what I meant to be a smile,—“for they say at home that I—I am not well; too much for me this; you know, mothers will be foolish; and—and—I am to speak to your father to-morrow; and—good-night! God bless you, Miss Trevanion!”