"Indeed, I have," was Althea's reply; "she is such a bright, intelligent little soul, and she has so much tact and sympathy. I am afraid I almost begrudge her to Mollie, especially as——" But here she checked herself.
"You are not feeling quite well, dear," observed her sister, affectionately. "I hope your eyes are not troubling you." But Althea shook her head.
"Not particularly. No, don't fuss, Dorrie, there is nothing really the matter; only the east wind is my enemy. How is one to feel happy without sunshine and warmth? Do you remember that March we spent in the Riviera, and those orange groves, and the bed of Neapolitan violets under our window? How delicious it was!"
"But, Ally, dear," remonstrated Doreen, "why do you speak in that regretful voice? You know Aunt Sara wanted you to spend the winter with her at Mentone, but you refused at once."
"Of course I refused," returned Althea, indignantly. "Do you think I was going to leave you alone all the winter? Besides, there was my work. What would have become of my Porch House Thursdays, and my classes and Library teas? Oh, no, Dorrie. What is the use of 'putting one's hand to the plough, and looking back?' Work has its responsibilities. As long as my strength lasts I want to do my own little bit as well and as perfectly as I can." And then Mitchell came in for the coachman's orders, and Althea went off to read the letters in the library.
Waveney spent half her time at Cleveland Terrace. As Mollie grew stronger, she yearned incessantly for her sister's companionship, and, as Althea once remarked to Everard, "it seemed useless and cruel to keep them apart." And Everard fully concurred in this opinion.
"But you are very good to spare my little Waveney to us so much," he said, gratefully, "and we ought not to take advantage of your kindness. The child was here three or four times last week. I am afraid she is neglecting all her duties for Mollie." But though Althea was too truthful to deny this, she assured him that she was perfectly willing to spare her young companion.
"I don't think I ever saw two sisters so devoted to each other," she continued. "It is really beautiful to see their love for each other."
"It has always been the same," returned Everard, in a moved voice. "Even when they were mere babies, Mollie would refuse to touch her cake unless Waveney had half. Dorothy had to put them to sleep in the same cot, or Mollie would have cried half the night. It was the prettiest sight, she used to tell me." And then he broke up rather abruptly. "I am an old fool about my girls," he said, with a little laugh; "but, you see, I have had to be mother as well as father for so many years." But Althea made no answer to this. She only bade him good-bye very kindly. It was the first time he had mentioned his wife to her. Dorothy! How his voice had softened as he mentioned the beloved name.
That morning when Waveney made her little speech about a peck of March dust, she found a delightful surprise awaiting her at Cleveland Terrace.