"What does it matter about age, we have had a beautiful walk," returned Faith, laughing a little nervously as she hung over the back of her sister's sofa so that her face was hidden. The conjunction, so sweet to newly-engaged people, had slipped out by mistake. Miss Charity looked up testily.
"Who do you mean by we? I wish you would speak plainly. Has the doctor joined you in your hunt after dripping hedges. If one does not learn common sense when one has turned thirty-five last March I don't suppose it will ever be learned," grumbled the invalid, who, with all her sharpness, had not an idea of the real state of the case.
Dr. Stewart's eyes began to twinkle wickedly; he was enjoying the fun. Miss Charity's humors always amused him. He generally let her fret and fume to her heart's content without attempting to contradict her, but a glance at Faith's nervous face determined him to give her a "clincher," as he called it.
"Yes; I met Faith, and we had a walk together," he commenced blandly, but Miss Charity began to bridle.
"You met my sister, Dr. Stewart. I suppose you did not mean—to say what you did," she was about to finish, but the doctor interrupted her cheerfully.
"Well, I call her Faith because we are old friends, and because we have settled our little matters between ourselves this afternoon. When two people have decided to become man and wife there is no further need for formality, eh, Miss Charity."
"Man and wife!" responded Miss Charity with a faint shriek, and then she covered her face with her hands.
"Yes; have we startled you?" he continued more gravely, for her surprise and agitation were very great. "Faith was unprepared for my speaking, or she would have given you a hint. It seems we have cared for each other, in a sort of a way, for the last ten or eleven years; there's constancy for you! Why I have been all over the world, and have yet come back to my old sweetheart."
"Where are you, Faith? Why do you let Dr. Stewart do all the talking?" demanded Miss Charity, uncovering her pale face, but speaking in her old irritable manner. "If you have accepted him, and you are going to be what he said," shivering slightly, for the words brought back a dreary past and void of her own, "there is nothing for me or any one to say. You're not a girl," with an hysterical laugh; "I suppose you know your own mind."
"Oh, Cara!" cried poor Faith, with tears in her eyes, "I don't know how I can be so selfish as to wish to leave you, but it is all true that he says. It was coming back to nurse you that put a stop to everything ten years ago; and now he has come back, and it seems as though we were meant for each other, and—and—" here she broke into nervous sobbing.