She was lying awake later than usual, pondering over the events of the day, when a stifled sound, strongly resembling a sob promptly swallowed by a simulated yawn, reached her ear.
'Chrissy, dear, is there anything the matter?' she inquired, anxiously, trying to grope her way to the huddled heap of bed-clothes.
'No, thank you,' returned Chriss, with dignity; 'what should be the matter? good-night. I believe I am getting sleepy,' with another artfully-constructed yawn which did not in the least deceive Olive.
Chrissy was crying, that was clear; and Olive's sympathy was wide-awake as usual; but how was she with her clumsy, well-meaning efforts to overcome the prickles?
Chriss was well known to have a soul above sympathy, which she generally resented as impertinent; nevertheless Olive's voice grew aggravatingly soft.
'I thought perhaps you might feel dull about Aunt Milly,' she began, hesitating; 'we do—and so——'
'I don't know, I am sure, whom you mean by your aggravating we's,' snapped Chriss; 'but it is very hard a person can't have their feelings without coming down on them like a policeman and taking them in charge.'
'Well, then, I won't say another word, Chriss,' returned her sister, good-humouredly.
But this did not mollify Chriss.
'Speaking won't hurt a person when they are sore all over,' she replied, with her usual contradiction. 'I hate prying, of course, and it is a pity one can't enjoy a comfortable little cry without being put through one's catechism. But I do want Aunt Milly. There!' finished Chriss, with another ominous shaking of the bed-clothes; 'and I want her more than you do with all your mysterious we's.'