“But, but,” said Babie, not so much impressed as her brother wished; “isn’t he rather a spoon? Johnny said he ought to have been a girl.”
“I didn’t think Johnny was such a stupid,” said Armine, “I only know he has been no end of a comfort to me, though he says he only wants to hinder me from getting like him.”
“Don’t then,” said Babie, “though I don’t understand. I thought you were so fond of him.”
“So must you be,” said Armine; “I never got on with anybody so well. He knows just how it is! He says if God gives one such a life, He will help one to find out the way to make the best of it for oneself and other people, and to bear to see other people doing what one can’t, and we are to help one another. Oh, Babie! you must like Fordham!”
“I must if you do!” said Babie. “But he is awfully old for a friend for you, Armie.”
“He is nineteen,” said Armine, “but people get more and more of the same age as they grow older. And he likes all our books, and more too, Babie. He had such a delicious book of French letters, that he lent me, with things in them that were just what I wanted. If we are to be abroad all the winter, he will get his mother to go wherever we do. Suppose we went to the Holy Land, Babie!”
“Oh! then we could find Jotapata! Oh, no,” she added, humbly, “I promised Miss Ogilvie not to talk of Jotapata on a Sunday.”
“And going to the Holy Land only to look for it would be much the same thing,” said Armine. “Besides, I expect it is up among the Druses, where one can’t go.”
“Armie,” in the tone of a great confession, “I’ve told Sydney all about it. Have you told Lord Fordham?”
“No,” said Armine, who was less exclusively devoted to the great romance. “I wonder whether he would read it?”