“Not more so than the object of my compliments deserves, Mr. Legare,” said the sister, snappishly.
“Good-morning. I will go to my club. There, at least, I will be treated as a gentleman!” cried the brother, rising.
“Frank, you’re a brute!”
And Lizzie burst out in a flood of tears.
Frank turned back, though he had reached the door.
“Darling, do not weep or quarrel with a brother who loves you better than he loves his life!” he whispered, as he bent tenderly over her.
“Then don’t—don’t talk so to a sister who loves you with all her heart and soul!” sobbed Lizzie, looking forgiveness through her tears—sunlight breaking through the clouds—“dear brother!”
And clinging to his neck, she kissed him with almost childish fervor and tenderness.
The storm was over. Would that all such domestic storms could pass as fleetly, and as brightly.
Frank did not go to his club. He sat down by the side of his sister, and long, earnestly and quietly they talked about this strangely beautiful, this mysterious girl, and tried to plan out some way to find out, without her knowing it, who she was, where she came from, and all about her.