"I wish I was engaged," sighed Phyllis.
The elder sister nudged Hazel to gain her attention. "Try not to appear too happy," she whispered earnestly. "You know the trouble I have with her—how I try to keep her a child."
Hazel nodded sympathetically. "But I am afraid I cannot help it," she whispered back. "I am so happy, you know. What shall I do?" she added helplessly.
"Can't you hint that for many things you are sorry that childhood is over?" suggested the demure maiden, anxiously regarding the fresh, sweet, rosy face, the happy brown eyes.
"But I am not," Hazel replied, bluntly frank.
"Oh, Doris, don't keep Hazel all to yourself," Phyllis exclaimed plaintively. "Hazel, have you got a riding habit?"
"Yes, a lovely one, made by a London tailor. Uncle Percival gave it me—he is always wanting to give me dresses, but mothie does not like him to."
"What colour is it?" Doris asked, interested herself, and deeming her little sister's interest in this subject—and possible envy—legitimate.
"Brown," Hazel made answer—"almost exactly the colour of my horse."
"Your horse?"