nd our guests grow tired, and nothing
is done; and we know that we can hear nothing of what we most want to
learn. I am certain that my mother spends her nights in tears for her
boys; and nothing is so likely to rouse poor Genifrede as the prospect
of their coming back to us."

"And you yourself, Aimee, cannot be happy without Isaac."

"I never tried," said she. "I have daily felt his loss, because I
wished never to cease to feel it."

"He is happier than you, dearest Aimee."

"Do not tell me that men feel such separations less than women; for I
know it well already. I can never have been so necessary to him as he
is to me; I know that well."

"Say `was,' my Aimee. The time comes when sisters find their brothers
less necessary to them than they have been."

"Such a time has never come to me, and I believe it never will. No one
can ever be to me what Isaac has been."

"`Has been;'--true. But see how times have changed! Isaac has left off
writing to you so frequently as he did--"

"No, no. He never did write frequently; it was never his habit to write
as I wrote to him."

"Well, well. Whatever expectation may lie at the bottom of this little
heart, whatever secret remonstrance for his silence, whatever
dissatisfaction with his apologies, whatever mortification that such
apologies were necessary--"

"How dare you--What right have you to pry into my heart?" exclaimed
Aimee, withdrawing herself from her companion's side.

"The right of love," he replied, following till both were seated on the
very verge of the water. "Can you suppose that I do not see your
disappointment when L'Ouverture opens his dispatches, and there is not
one of that particular size and fold which makes your countenance change
when you see it? Can you suppose that I do not mark your happiness, for
hours and days, after one of those closely-written sheets has come?--
happiness which makes me feel of no account to you--happiness which
makes me jealous of my very brother--for my brother he is, as he is
yours."

"It should not do that," replied Aimee, as she sat looking into the
water. "You should not be _angry_ at my being happy. If you have
learned so much of my thoughts--"

"Say on! Oh, say on!"

"There is no need," said she, "if you can read the soul without speech,
as you seem to profess."

"I read no thoughts but yours; and none of yours that relate to myself.
I see at a glance every stir of your love to all besides.