Were made to yield, were made to fall;
When we’ve held them each their day,
Soldier-like we march away.”
IX.
“S. P.” AND THE BARON.
Dinner was over, and the salon deserted by all but the two young ladies, who sat apart, apparently absorbed in novels, while each was privately longing for somebody to come, and with the charming inconsistency of the fair sex, planning to fly if certain somebodies did appear.
Steps approached; both buried themselves in their books; both held their breath and felt their hearts flutter as they never had done before at the step of mortal man. The door opened; neither looked up, yet each was conscious of mingled disappointment and relief when the major said, in a grave tone, “Girls, I’ve something to tell you.”
“We know what it is, sir,” returned Helen, coolly.
“I beg your pardon, but you don’t, my dear, as I will prove in five minutes, if you will give me your attention.”
The major looked as if braced up to some momentous undertaking; and planting himself before the two young ladies, dashed bravely into the subject.