ng akin to
it, and that he had disappointed her in a way which had never been told.
No stranger, save in the capacity of the one beloved, could wound a woman
sufficiently to make her weep, and it followed that Christopher was the
man of Picotee's choice. As Ethelberta recalled the conversations,
conclusion after conclusion came like pulsations in an aching head. 'O,
how did it happen, and who is to blame?' she exclaimed. 'I cannot doubt
his faith, and I cannot doubt hers; and yet how can I keep doubting them
both?'

It was characteristic of Ethelberta's jealous motherly guard over her
young sisters that, amid these contending inquiries, her foremost feeling
was less one of hope for her own love than of championship for Picotee's.

23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)

Picotee was heard on the stairs: Ethelberta covered her face.

'Is he waiting?' she said faintly, on finding that Picotee did not begin
to speak.

'No; he is gone,' said Picotee.

'Ah, why is that?' came quickly from under the handkerchief. 'He has
forgotten me--that's what it is!'

'O no, he has not!' said Picotee, just as bitterly.

Ethelberta had far too much heroism to let much in this strain escape
her, though her sister was prepared to go any lengths in the same. 'I
suppose,' continued Ethelberta, in the quiet way of one who had only a
headache the matter with her, 'that he remembered you after the meeting
at Anglebury?'

'Yes, he remembered me.'

'Did you tell me you had seen him before that time?'

'I had seen him at Sandbourne. I don't think I told you.'

'At whose house did you meet him?'

'At nobody's. I only saw him sometimes,' replied Picotee, in great
distress.

Ethelberta, though of all women most miserable, was brimming with
compassion for the throbbing girl so nearly related to her, in whom she
continually saw her own weak points without the counterpoise of her
strong ones. But it was necessary to repress herself awhile: the
intended ways of her life were blocked and broken up by this jar of
interests, and she wanted time to ponder new plans. 'Picotee, I would
rather be alone now, if you don't mind,' she said. 'You need not leave
me any light; it makes my eyes ache, I think.'

Picotee left the room. But Ethelberta had not long been alone and in
darkness when somebody gently opened the door, and entered without a
candle.

'Berta,' said the soft voice of Picotee again, 'may I come in?'

'O yes,' said E