There was a silence of several minutes, and then Allister said,—
“Shenac, I have asked Cousin Shenac to be my wife.” Shenac stood perfectly still in her surprise and dismay. Yes, she was dismayed. I have heard it said that the tidings of a brother’s engagement rarely bring unmixed pleasure to a sister. I daresay there is some truth in this. Many sisters make their brothers their first object in life—pride themselves on their talents, their worth, their success, live in their lives, glory in their triumphs; till a day comes when it is softly said of some stranger, or some friend—it may be none the pleasanter to hear because it is a friend—“She is more to him than you could ever be.” Is it only to jealous hearts, ignoble minds, that such tidings come with a shock of pain? Nay, the truer the heart the keener the pain. It may be short, but it is sharp. The second thought may be, “It is well for him; I am glad for him.” But the pang is first, and inevitable.
Allister had been always first, after Hamish, in Shenac’s heart—perhaps not even after Hamish. She had never thought of him in connection with any change of this kind. In all her plans for the future, no thought of possible separation had come. She stood perfectly still, till her brother touched her.
“Well, Shenac?”
Then she moved on without speaking. She was searching about among her astonished and dismayed thoughts for something to say, for she felt that Allister was waiting for her to speak. At last she made a grasp at the question they had been discussing, and said hurriedly,—
“But there is nothing to vex Shenac in that, surely?”
“No; unless she is right in thinking that you will not be glad too.”
“I am glad it is Shenac. I would rather it would be Shenac than any one else in the whole world—”
“I was sure of it,” said her brother, kissing her fondly.
Even without the kiss she would hardly have had the courage to add,—