e with her.
Yes, she loved him; by the time he had asked her for the third dance she
loved him. She did not think much of his proposing, of their marrying,
just that someone cared for her. At first she could not believe it, but
by the end of the month the signs clearly resembled those of Louie's
young men. Flowers, a note about a book he had lent her, a note about a
mistake he had made in his last note; she was sure he must care for
her. The other girls at the dances noticed his devotion, and asked
Henrietta when it was to be announced. She laughed off their questions,
but they gave her a thrill of delight. All must be well.

And if they had married all would have been well. There might have been
jars and rubs, with Henrietta's jealous disposition there probably would
have been, but they would have been as happy as the majority of married
couples; she would have been happier, for to many people, even to some
women, it is not, as it was to her, the all-sufficing condition of
existence to love and be loved.

At the end of the month Louie came home. Henrietta had dreaded her
return. She had no confidence in herself when Louie was by. Louie made
her cold and awkward. She would have liked to have asked her not to come
into the room when he called, but she was too shy; there had never been
any intimacy between the sisters. Mrs. Symons however, spoke to Louie.
"A very nice young fellow, with perfectly good connections, not making
much yet, but sufficient for a start. It would do very well."

Louie would not have considered herself more heartless than other
people, but she was a coquette, and she did not want Henrietta to be
settled before her. The next time the young man came, he found in the
drawing-room not merely a very much prettier Miss Symons, that in itself
was not of much consequence, but a Miss Symons who was well aware of her
advantages, and knew moreover from successful practice exactly how to
rouse a desire for pursuit in the ordinary young man.

Henrietta saw at once, though she fought hard, that she had no chance.

"Are you going to the Humphreys to-morrow?" he said to Louie.

"If Henrietta's crinoline will leave any room in the carriage," answered
Louie, "I shall try to get a little corner, perhaps under the seat, or
one could always run behind. I crushed--see, what did I crush?--a little
teeny-tiny piece of flounce one terrible evening; didn't I, Henrietta?
And I was never allowed to hear the last of it."