"You are such a fine brother, John, that I am almost in love with you," she returned, as she lovingly left an imprint of a kiss on his cheek; then leaving him to pursue her work.
"Whose love would I want more than yours, Anne?" he asked, in his laughing manner.
"Oh, I don't know, John; maybe you have a girl better than me to love you," she replied.
"I shall never place any one above my dear little sister," he said thoughtfully; "but—for no one can be your equal—except—one."
"Is it one of those, John, whom I am going after this morning?" asked Anne, rattling the skillet on the stove. "One of those whom brother James and I met on the road a short time ago?"
"One of those, Anne—the rich man's only child—but I am too poor for her," he answered, regretfully.
"Is she as good as you, brother—and me?" asked Anne, distributing the plates around the table. She was innocent yet of the ways of the world; but was feeling the first calling of young maidenhood.
"She is very good, Anne; very good; but no better than you," he returned, with the same uncertain cloud of perplexity that overcast him so often before, still pervading him like a wave of blinding light that comes to obscure the vision, at times, by reason of its intensity of purpose.
"She is very fine looking, John—both of them, John. Which one is it you mean?"
"The smaller of the two."