“Prettier than any one you ever saw in your life.”
“Not prettier than Sigrid?” said the little sister confidently.
“Wait till you see,” said Frithiof. “She is a brunette and perfectly lovely. There now!” as the music ceased, “Sigrid has felt her left ear burning, and knows that we are speaking evil of her. Let us come to confess.”
With his arms still round the child he entered the pretty bright-looking room to the right. Sigrid was still at the piano, but she had heard his voice and had turned round with eager expectation in her face. The brother and sister were very much alike; each had the same well-cut Greek features, but Frithiof’s face was broader and stronger, and you could tell at a glance that he was the more intellectual of the two. On the other hand, Sigrid possessed a delightful fund of quiet common-sense, and her judgment was seldom at fault, while, like most Norwegian girls, she had a most charmingly simple manner, and an unaffected light-heartedness which it did one good to see.
“Well! what news?” she exclaimed. “Have they come all right? Are they nice?”
“Nice is not the word! charming! beautiful! To-morrow you will see if I have spoken too strongly.”
“He says she is even prettier than you, Sigrid,” said Swanhild mischievously. “Prettier than any one we ever saw!”
“She? Which of them?”
“Miss Blanche Morgan, the daughter of the head of the firm, you know.”
“And the other one?”