anxious to shake her off; but it was not to be done. Bertha preceded her up-stairs, talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper. ‘Am I in disgrace with you, too, Phœbe? Miss Fennimore says I have committed an awful breach of propriety; but really I could not leave you to the beating of the pitiless storm alone. I am afraid Malta’s sagacity and little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift before life was extinct. Are you greatly displeased with me, Phœbe?’ And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door, and looked full at her sister.
‘No—no—dear Bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would go—’
‘Now, Phœbe, indeed that is not kind of you,’ said Bertha, pleadingly, but preparing to obey.
‘No, Bertha, it is not,’ said Phœbe, recovering herself in a moment. ‘I am sorry for it; but oh! don’t you know the feeling of wanting to have one’s treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it? No, don’t go;’ and the two sisters flung their arms round one another. ‘You shall hear now.’
‘No, no,’ said Bertha, kissing her; ‘my time for obtrusive, childish curiosity is over! I only was so anxious;’ and she looked up with tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister. Phœbe might well requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said, calmly, ‘Yes, Bertha, I am very happy.’
‘You ought to be,’ said Bertha, seriously.
‘Yes,’ said Phœbe, taking the ought in a different sense from what she meant; ‘he is all, and more, than I ever thought a man wise in true wisdom should be.’
‘And a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,’ said Bertha. ‘I am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like John Raymond! My dear Phœbe, Sir John will tear his hair!’
‘For shame, Bertha!’
‘Well, I will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only thing that keeps tears out of one’s eyes. I see you want to be alone. Dear Phœbe!’ and she clung to her neck for a moment.