“Yes, and have a garden with a hothouse like Mr. Brown’s.”
“Oh yes; and a governess to teach us to draw. But best of all—O Sylvia! wouldn’t it be nice not to have to mind one’s clothes always? Yes, you laugh; but it comes easier to you; and, oh dear! oh dear! it is so horrid to be always having to see one does not tear oneself.”
“I don’t think you do see,” said Sylvia, laughing.
“My frocks always will get upon the thorns. It is very odd.”
“Only do please, Katie dear, let me finish this sum; and then if Mary is not come, she can’t scold if we are amusing ourselves.”
“I know!” cried Kate. “I’ll draw such a picture, and tell you all about it when your sum is over.”
Thereon ensued silence in the little room, half parlour, half study, nearly filled with books and piano; and the furniture, though carefully protected with brown holland, looking the worse for wear, and as if danced over by a good many young folks.
The two little girls, who sat on the opposite sides of a little square table in the bay-window, were both between ten and eleven years old, but could not have been taken for twins, nor even for sisters, so unlike were their features and complexion; though their dress, very dark grey linsey, and brown holland aprons, was exactly the same, except that Sylvia’s was enlivened by scarlet braid, Kate’s darkened by black—and moreover, Kate’s apron was soiled, and the frock bore traces of a great darn. In fact, new frocks for the pair were generally made necessary by Kate’s tattered state, when Sylvia’s garments were still available for little Lily, or for some school child.
Sylvia’s brown hair was smooth as satin; Kate’s net did not succeed in confining the loose rough waves of dark chestnut, on the road to blackness. Sylvia was the shorter, firmer, and stronger, with round white well-cushioned limbs; Kate was tall, skinny, and brown, though perfectly healthful. The face of the one was round and rosy, of the other thin and dark; and one pair of eyes were of honest grey, while the others were large and hazel, with blue whites. Kate’s little hand was so slight, that Sylvia’s strong fingers could almost crush it together, but it was far less effective in any sort of handiwork; and her slim neatly-made foot always was a reproach to her for making such boisterous steps, and wearing out her shoes so much faster than the quieter movements of her companion did—her sister, as the children would have said, for nothing but the difference of surname reminded Katharine Umfraville that she was not the sister of Sylvia Wardour.
Her father, a young clergyman, had died before she could remember anything, and her mother had not survived him three months. Little Kate had then become the charge of her mother’s sister, Mrs. Wardour, and had grown up in the little parsonage belonging to the district church of St. James’s, Oldburgh, amongst her cousins, calling Mr. and Mrs. Wardour Papa and Mamma, and feeling no difference between their love to their own five children and to her.