are brought up together as brothers and sisters do
not change that affection for any other more serious in after life. It
is therefore not our faults if we cannot feel as, you must know, Tom, my
father wishes we should. Am I not right?"

"You are, I believe, Bessy," replied I.

"My father, therefore, is deceiving himself with the hopes of what never
can take place, but I know him even better than you do, Tom; it is the
object of his daily thoughts--his only wish before he sinks into his
grave. I cannot bear to undeceive him; no more can you, if I have truly
judged your feelings."

"You have judged right, Bessy."

"The very circumstance of our knowing his wishes, the hints which he
throws out, his joking on the subject, have been a source of annoyance
to both of us; and not only a source of annoyance, Tom, it has estranged
us--we no longer feel that affection which we should feel for each
other, that kindness as between brother and sister which might exist; on
the contrary, not being exactly aware of each other's feelings, we
avoid each other, and fearful that the least kindness might be
misconstrued, we do not really treat each as we otherwise would; in
fact, it has destroyed our mutual confidence. Is it not so?"

"It is, I acknowledge, but too true, Bessy, and I thank you for having
entered into this explanation--"

"Which, as I said before," continued Bessy, "I should not have done
except for the sake of my father; but now that I have done so" (and here
Bessy's voice became tremulous), "let us consult at once how we shall
act so as to secure his happiness, and that in future we may return to
the former confidence and regard which should exist between us as
brother and sister."

"Point out how this is to be done, Bessy, and I will cheerfully enter
into your wishes."

"We must laugh when he laughs, Tom, even if not inclined; we must gain
time--that is very easy. I may refuse as long as he lives--you may put
it off; and then, Tom, circumstances may help us--who knows what even a
day may bring forth?"

"Very true," replied I, "there's only one thing--"

"What is that?"

"Suppose I was to marry?"

"Then," replied Bessy, in a voice half choked, as she turned away, "my
father would be very unhappy."

I looked round to reply, but she had gone into the cottage. This
conversation gave me great satisfaction. I felt convinced that if I had
at one time formed the idea that Bessy was attached to me, I had been
mis