But yet there was something in Alaric's warm tone of admiration which gave her a feeling of unhappiness which she would have been quite unable to define, even had she attempted it.

She saw her sister and Harry Norman before her, and she knew in her heart that they were lovers, in spite of her little weak declaration to the contrary.

She saw how earnestly her sister was loved, and she in her kindly loving nature could not but envy her fancied happiness.

Envy--no--it certainly was not envy.

She would not for worlds have robbed her sister of her admirer; but it was so natural for her to feel that it must be delicious to be admired! She did not begrudge Gertrude Norman's superior beauty, nor his greater wealth; she knew that Gertrude was entitled to more, much more, than herself.