"Pet," said Faith softly,—"don't you raise a dust! We might not lay it so soon."
"Endy," said his sister, "how do you do?—you haven't told me."
"Perfectly well, dear Pet."
"Turn round to the light and let me see—You've grown, thin, child!"
He laughed—giving her a kiss and embrace to make up for that; which was only half successful. But she spoke in her former tone.
"He looks pretty strong, Faith,—I think I might tell him."
"Mr. Linden," said Faith, "won't you please ask Pet not to tell you something?"
"I will ask you," he said softly, laying his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Faith—I think we may dispense with 'Mr. Linden' now, even before people."
She was oddly abashed; glanced up at him and glanced down, with the grave air of a rebuked child. There was nothing about it that was not pretty; and the next thing her eyes went to Pet. How lovely and precious she looked as she stood there! with her sweet shy face and changing colours. Mr. Linden held her to his breast and kissed her more than once,—but in a way that was beyond chiding.
"Why must I ask Pet not to tell me something?"