e of twenty-one; but the half-doubting,
half-pouting, half-yielding, half-obstinate, soft, loving, lovable
childishness, which gives and exacts caresses, and which, when it
is genuine, may exist to an age much beyond that which Clarissa
Underwood had reached.

But with all her charms, Clarissa was not so happy a girl as her
sister. And for this lack of inward satisfaction there were at this
time two causes. She believed herself to be a fool, and was in that
respect jealous of her sister;--and she believed herself to be in
love, and in love almost without hope. As to her foolishness, it
seemed to her to be a fact admitted by every one but by Patience
herself. Not a human being came near her who did not seem to imply
that any question as to wisdom or judgment or erudition between
her and her sister would be a farce. Patience could talk Italian,
could read German, knew, at least by name, every poet that had ever
written, and was always able to say exactly what ought to be done.
She could make the servants love her and yet obey her, and could
always dress on her allowance without owing a shilling. Whereas
Clarissa was obeyed by no one, was in debt to her bootmaker and
milliner, and, let her struggles in the cause be as gallant as they
might, could not understand a word of Dante, and was aware that she
read the "Faery Queen" exactly as a child performs a lesson. As to
her love,--there was a sharper sorrow. Need the reader be told that
Ralph Newton was the hero to whom its late owner believed that her
heart had been given? This was a sore subject, which had never as yet
been mentioned frankly even between the two sisters. In truth, though
Patience thought that there was a fancy, she did not think that there
was much more than fancy. And, as far as she could see, there was
not even fancy on the young man's part. No word had been spoken
that could be accepted as an expression of avowed love. So at least
Patience believed. And she would have been very unhappy had it been
otherwise, for Ralph Newton was not,--in her opinion,--a man to whose
love her sister could be trusted with confidence. And yet, beyond her
father and sister, there was no one whom Patience loved as she did
Ralph Newton.

There had, however, been a little episode in the life of Clarissa
Underwood, which had tended to make her sister uneasy, and which
the reader may as well hear at once. There was a second Newton,
a younger brother,--but, though younger, not o