tairs,
talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper. 'Am I
in disgrace with you, too, Phoebe? Miss Fennimore says I have committed
an awful breach of propriety; but really I could not leave you to the
beating of the pitiless storm alone. I am afraid Malta's sagacity and
little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift
before life was extinct. Are you greatly displeased with me, Phoebe?'
And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door,
and looked full at her sister.

'No--no--dear Bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would
go--'

'Now, Phoebe, indeed that is not kind of you,' said Bertha, pleadingly,
but preparing to obey.

'No, Bertha, it is not,' said Phoebe, recovering herself in a moment. 'I
am sorry for it; but oh! don't you know the feeling of wanting to have
one's treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it? No,
don't go;' and the two sisters flung their arms round one another. 'You
shall hear now.'

'No, no,' said Bertha, kissing her; 'my time for obtrusive, childish
curiosity is over! I only was so anxious;' and she looked up with
tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister. Phoebe might well
requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said,
calmly, 'Yes, Bertha, I am very happy.'

'You ought to be,' said Bertha, seriously.

'Yes,' said Phoebe, taking the _ought_ in a different sense from what she
meant; 'he is all, and more, than I ever thought a man wise in true
wisdom should be.'

'And a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,' said Bertha. 'I
am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like John Raymond! My dear
Phoebe, Sir John will tear his hair!'

'For shame, Bertha!'

'Well, I will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only
thing that keeps tears out of one's eyes. I see you want to be alone.
Dear Phoebe!' and she clung to her neck for a moment.

'An instant more, Bertha. You see everything, I know; but has Miss
Fennimore guessed?'

'No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her
as, Lover's look conscious; Phoebe looks conscious; therefore Phoebe is
in love! It is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter
her brain.'

'Then, Bertha, do not let any one guess it. I shall speak to Mervyn
to-morrow, and write to Robin. It is their due, but no one else must
know it--no, not for a long time--yea