“Ah, but I do.”
“No; listen to me. You really in your heart respect Mr. Tracy very much for his action to-day.”
“For being so much less eager to help me than he was to help the milliner?”
“No; for not being willing to help even you by doing an unfair thing.”
“Well—if you like—respect, yes. But so one respects John Knox, and Increase Mather, and St. Simon What’s-his-name on top of the pillar—all the disagreeable people, in fact. But it isn’t respect that makes the world go round. There is such a thing as caring too much for respect, and too little for warmth of feeling, and generous impulses, and—and so on.”
“You’re a queer girl, Kate,” was all Ethel could think to say.
This time the silence maintained itself so long that the snapping of sparks on the hearth, and even the rushing suction of air in the lamp-flame, grew to be obvious noises. At last Ethel slid softly from the couch to the carpet, and nestled her head against her sister’s waist. Kate put her arm tenderly over the girl’s shoulder, and drew her closer to her, and the silence had become vocal with affectionate mur-murings to them both. It was the younger sister who finally spoke:
“You won’t do anything rash, Kate? Nothing without talking it over with me?” she pleaded, almost sadly.
Kate bent over and kissed her twice, thrice, on the forehead, and stroked the silken hair upon this forehead caressingly. Her own eyes glistened with the beginnings of tears before she made answer, rising as she spoke, and striving to import into her voice the accent of gayety:
“As if I ever dreamed of doing anything at all without asking you! And please, puss, may I go to bed now?”