And now, you dear old inquisitive, you will get nothing more out of me; so you must wait and not be too curious.

I'm going off to see what papa is doing." She sprang to her feet, threw her arms round her sister's neck, gave her a final squeeze, and was gone.

A chorus from Olivette, sung in her clear contralto, grew fainter and fainter until it ended in the slam of a distant door.
But Clara Walker still sat in the dim-lit room with her chin upon her hands, and her dreamy eyes looking out into the gathering gloom.

It was the duty of her, a maiden, to play the part of a mother--to guide another in paths which her own steps had not yet trodden.

Since her mother died not a thought had been given to herself, all was for her father and her sister.