thelberta. 'Has everything gone right with the house this
evening?'

'Yes; and Gwendoline went out just now to buy a few things, and she is
going to call round upon father when he has got his dinner cleared away.'

'I hope she will not stay and talk to the other servants. Some day she
will let drop something or other before father can stop her.'

'O Berta!' said Picotee, close beside her. She was kneeling in front of
the couch, and now flinging her arm across Ethelberta's shoulder and
shaking violently, she pressed her forehead against her sister's temple,
and breathed out upon her cheek:

'I came in again to tell you something which I ought to have told you
just now, and I have come to say it at once because I am afraid I shan't
be able to to-morrow. Mr. Julian was the young man I spoke to you of a
long time ago, and I should have told you all about him, but you said he
was your young man too, and--and I didn't know what to do then, because I
thought it was wrong in me to love your young man; and Berta, he didn't
mean me to love him at all, but I did it myself, though I did not want to
do it, either; it would come to me! And I didn't know he belonged to you
when I began it, or I would not have let him meet me at all; no I
wouldn't!'

'Meet you? You don't mean to say he used to meet you?' whispered
Ethelberta.

'Yes,' said Picotee; 'but he could not help it. We used to meet on the
road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round.
But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn't bide in
Sandbourne, and--and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted
to see you, Berta, but because I--I wanted--'

'Yes, yes, I know,' said Ethelberta hurriedly.

'And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and
that caused--a confusion!'

'O, well, it does not much matter,' said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee
soothingly. 'You ought not of course to have come to London in such a
manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it. Perhaps
it may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?'

'Then don't you want him, Berta?'

'O no; not at all!'

'What--and don't you really want him, Berta?' repeated Picotee, starting
up.

'I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort of
man I should wish to--think it best to marry, even if I were to marry,
which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see me
because we are o