"But," she added, "I must tell you, Lizzie, what spoiled the evening for me. We had two other guests who came later than I did, and quite unexpectedly. The gentleman is a distant relative of Mr. Martin's, and is agreeable enough; but his wife is Nora's aversion. She is a dreadful person: so cold, hard, unsympathetic, and besides so fond of saying sharp things without the least regard to the feelings of others that she spoils everybody's comfort. She told a story, and she looked, I thought, only at me whilst she related it, about a well-dressed young lady who had asked her for the gift of a penny at a railway-station. 'And fancy,' she said, 'I had seen the creature gorging herself with sweets in the refreshment room only the moment before. I told her plainly that she was an impostor, though I have no doubt George would have opened his purse to her had he been alone.'"
"I could not get rid of the idea that you were the young lady, Lizzie; and when she named the place and described the girl I felt sure of it. All my selfishness flashed across my mind. I remembered how I had hurried you about your lunch—far less substantial than my own; loaded you with my parcels; and left you with not even money enough to obtain proper refreshment, when you must have been both hungry and weary. I thought, too, that I might grow to be like that hard, cold-hearted woman who seemed so devoid of common feeling, and I could not endure even the fancied picture. I was too unhappy to stay at Mrs. Martin's as long as I intended, and nothing ever rejoiced me more than to find you here safe and sound."
As Edith spoke she threw her arms round her sister's neck and kissed her affectionately.
Lizzie returned the caress with all the warm sisterly love that was part of her sweet feminine character. Further conversation was, however, prevented by the entrance of Cousin Helen, who announced that her lively little ones were at length sleeping peacefully, from the baby upwards. She jestingly alluded to Lizzie's adventure, and was surprised to observe the effect her joke had upon Edith, and to hear the latter frankly acknowledge how much she had been to blame.
Lizzie turned the conversation as quickly as possible, and no more was said about the matter. The cousins passed the last hour before bed-time in talk about mutual friends and relatives, and the expected return of Helen's husband on the morrow.
When the two sisters were in their own room, Edith had something more to say.
"Does it not seem strange that so little a thing should make me feel so differently, both about myself and you, Lizzie? I have always had an idea that you, as younger sister, ought to give up your will to mine, and as though things which mattered for me were of no consequence to you; as though the best was my due always, and that—"
"Don't say another word, Edith. I have always been glad for you to have the best. You set off pretty things far more than I do."
"Ah, Lizzie, darling! It was good in you to give up; but it was not good in me to take the best. I can see to-night, as I never did before, how much I may learn from you, little sister."
"I am certain your feeling in this way towards me is an answer to dear mamma's prayers, Edie. People have always petted and admired you, dear, and I'm sure I do, as much as anybody," said frank Lizzie, looking with genuine admiration into the face of her tall, handsome sister, who had probably never in her life looked so lovely and lovable as she did at that moment. "And so much praise is not quite a help towards keeping us humble. Luckily for me, I am never very much admired, except by old women and little children."