They spoke about “the happy couple,” who had gone away to begin their new life together, about Tam’s long voyage and Annie’s hopeful waiting, and the chances they had of happiness, because they loved one another. And then they went on to other things, some of them glad, and some of them sad, and “do you mind that time?” and “have you forgotten this?” they said, and sometimes they sighed, and sometimes they smiled, and at last they fell into silence. By and by Jean rose and moving upward, paced up and down the narrow ledge, as she had done so many a time before in so many a mood. The two who remained were silent still, busy with their own thoughts, till George, stooping down and speaking softly, said.
“Marion, do you mind one day coming here with—Elsie and me?”
“Ay, George, I mind it well.”
Marion turned, and took in both hers the hand that he held out to her.
“Poor George!” said she, drooping her head till her cheek just touched it. Then she rose and stood beside him still holding his hand. George stood with his face turned away, and neither spoke or moved for a good while.
“George, do I mind you of her? Does it grieve you to see me?”
George turned and met the look in her sweet wistful eyes.
“You mind me of her, but it does not grieve me to see you—my dear little sister.”
And then George did an unwise thing. He clasped and kissed her, and held her to him, “as I might have clasped and kissed my own sister,” he said to himself afterward, trying to still the voice that said it was not wise.
And Marion went home smiling in the darkness, and saying to herself,—