"I am afraid you will laugh this time, Trixy—I know it is only a dream, but I thought Charley and I were—"
"Yes," said Trixy; "were—what?"
"Married, then!" with a faint little laugh. "Don't tell him, please, but it seems—it seems so real, I had to tell you."
She turned her face away. And Trixy, with suspicious dimness in her eyes, stooped down and kissed that thin, wan face.
"You poor little Dithy!" she said; "you do like Charley, don't you? no, it's not a dream—you were married nearly a fortnight ago. The hope of my life is realized—you are my sister, and Charley's wife!"
There was a little panting cry—then she covered her face with her hands and lay still.
"He is outside," went on Trix; "you don't know what a good boy he has been—so patient—and all that. He deserves some reward. I think if you had died he would have died too—Lord Lovel and Lady Nancy, over again. Not that I much believe in broken hearts where men are concerned, either," pursued Trix, growing, cynical; "but this seems an exceptional case. He's awfully fond of you, Dithy; 'pon my word he is. I only hope Angus may go off in a dead faint the first time I'm sick and get better, as he did the other day. We haven't let him in much lately, for fear of agitating you, but I think," says Trixy, with twinkling eyes, "you could stand it now—couldn't you, Mrs. Stuart?"
She did not wait for a reply—she went out and hunted up Charley. He was smoking downstairs, and trying to read the morning paper.
"Your wife wants you," said Miss Stuart brusquely; "go! only mind this—don't stay too long, and don't talk too much."
He started to his feet—away went Tribune and cigar, and up the stairs sprang Charley—half a dozen at a time.