“Yes, there is his brother, and a most devoted brother, we are told,” responded Miss Sabrina, speaking more fluently now that she had launched upon family affection. “Yes, indeed—from all we have heard of Paul Tennant, we are inclined to think him a most excellent young man. He may not have Ferdinand’s beauty (we are told that Ferdinand is remarkably handsome); and it is probable, too, that he has not Ferdinand’s cultivation, for he is a business man, and has always lived at the North.—I beg your pardon, my dear, I am sure,” said the Southern lady, interrupting herself in confusion.
“It doesn’t matter; the North won’t die of it. If you know where this brother is— But why has he a different name?”
“The mother, Mrs. Tennant, who was a widow with this one boy, Paul, married one of the Maryland Morrisons—I reckon you know the family. Ferdinand is the child of this second marriage. His father and mother are dead; his only near relative is this half-brother, Paul.”
“Write to Paul, then, and find out where Ferdinand is.”
“This is a plot, isn’t it?” answered Miss Sabrina, smiling. “But I like it; it’s so sweet of you to plan for our poor Cicely’s happiness.”
“You needn’t thank me! Then you will write?”
“But I don’t know where Mr. Tennant is either.—I dare say Cicely knows.”
“But if you ask her, she will suspect something. And if I ask her, it will be worse still! Doesn’t anybody in the world know where this Paul Tennant is?” said Eve, irritably.
“I think we heard that it was some place where it is very cold—I remember that. It might have been Canada,” suggested Sabrina, reflectively.
“Canada and South America—what a family!” said Eve, in despair.