perception that her performance merely as a notable bit of
reportorial art--did not wholly lack style, even if her attire did. Yet,
brilliant as Jane's work was, Mrs. Baxter felt no astonishment; several
times ere this Jane had demonstrated a remarkable faculty for the
retention of details concerning William. And running hand in hand with
a really superb curiosity, this powerful memory was making Jane an even
greater factor in William's life than he suspected.
During the glamors of early love, if there be a creature more deadly
than the little brother of a budding woman, that creature is the little
sister of a budding man. The little brother at least tells in the open
all he knows, often at full power of his lungs, and even that may be
avoided, since he is wax in the hands of bribery; but the little sister
is more apt to save her knowledge for use upon a terrible occasion; and,
no matter what bribes she may accept, she is certain to tell her mother
everything. All in all, a young lover should arrange, if possible, to be
the only child of elderly parents; otherwise his mother and sister are
sure to know a great deal more about him than he knows that they know.
This was what made Jane's eyes so disturbing to William during lunch
that day. She ate quietly and competently, but all the while he was
conscious of her solemn and inscrutable gaze fixed upon him; and she
spoke not once. She could not have rendered herself more annoying,
especially as William was trying to treat her with silent scorn, for
nothing is more irksome to the muscles of the face than silent scorn,
when there is no means of showing it except by the expression. On the
other hand, Jane's inscrutability gave her no discomfort whatever. In
fact, inscrutability is about the most comfortable expression that a
person can wear, though the truth is that just now Jane was not really
inscrutable at all.
She was merely looking at William and thinking of Mr. Parcher.
IX
LITTLE SISTERS HAVE BIG EARS
The confidential talk between mother and daughter at noon was not
the last to take place that day. At nightfall--eight o'clock in this
pleasant season--Jane was saying her prayers beside her bed, while her
mother stood close by, waiting to put out the light.
"An' bless mamma and papa an'--" Jane murmured, coming to a pause.
"An'--an' bless Willie," she added, with a little reluctance.
"Go on, dear," said her mother. "You haven't finished."
"I know
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