“Sister Lizzie, I want to talk to you. It is not your regular bed time by an hour or more yet. Can you be real steady, and thoughtful, and loving, for just a little while?”
“I can try, dear Brother Frank. If I fail, why, scold me,” said sweet Lizzie Legare, as she went arm-in-arm with her brother back into the house, after having seen Hattie and Mr. W—— off in the carriage.
“Well, we will go to your boudoir, Lizzie. I want to see you alone and to ask your advice.”
So they went to the little gem of a room, carpeted in velvet, with flowers in every corner, curtains of lace, chairs, ottomans, and a tete-a-tete all covered with damask silk, and there they sat down, and Frank commenced with a sigh—a long and heavy sigh, and such a woe-begone look that Lizzie demurely asked:
“Are you sick, dear brother?”
“No, but I’m worse off, Lizzie. I’m in love!”
“So am I.”
“I’m in love with Hattie Butler! There now!”
“So am I. There now!” and Lizzie laughed till tears ran from her eyes, for she had imitated his desperate “there now” like an echo.
“It isn’t anything to laugh at. I never was more serious in my life,” he said, rather tartly, for he thought she was making fun of him.