“Again counterfeiting. And vainly. Well, I won’t gratify you by giving his name this time. Enough to say that ever since you last saw him you haven’t been like you used to be. Why, Sab, I can remember when you were as full of frolic as myself, or Hector here. Yet, for the last two years you’ve been as melancholy as a love-sick monkey. True, there’s been a little brightening up in you of late—no doubt due to that letter. Ha—ha—ha!”
Sabrina laughed too, despite the unmerciful way she was being bantered. The allusion to “that letter” was not unpleasant. Its contents, very gratifying, had restored her heart’s gladness and confidence. Not that she had ever doubted her lover’s fealty, but only had fears for his life. She said nothing, however, leaving the other to rattle on.
“And now, Miss Prim-and-Prudery, I want your reason for prying into my secrets, after being so chary of your own; I demand it.”
“Dear Vaga! you shall have it and welcome. After what you say, there need be no shyness in my telling you now. I was anxious about you on father’s account, and my own, too, as your sister.”
“Anxious about me! For what?”
“Your relations with yonder individual.”
She nodded towards the horseman with the red feather in his hat.
“Very good of father and you to be so concerned about me; but don’t you think I can take care of myself? I’m getting old enough to do that.”
She was only a little over seventeen, but believed herself quite as much a woman as Sabrina, who was three years her senior. She had the proud, independent spirit of one, and brooked no control by her older sister; on the contrary, rather exercised it herself. She was her father’s favourite; a circumstance that would appear strange to those acquainted with his character. Hence, in part, her assumption of superiority.
“Of course you can,” returned Sabrina, assentingly. “And I’m glad of it.”