ssed her fondly, called her my dearest
Laura at least three times, looked her archly in the face, nodded
her head, and said, "Promise to tell no-o-body, and I will show you
something."

And tripping across the room daintily to a little mother-of-pearl inlaid
desk, she opened it with a silver key, and took out two or three papers
crumpled and rather stained with green, which she submitted to her
friend. Laura took them and read them. They were love-verses sure
enough--something about Undine--about a Naiad--about a river. She looked
at them for a long time; but in truth the lines were not very distinct
before her eyes.

"And you have answered them, Blanche?" she asked, putting them back.

"O no! not for worlds, dearest," the other said: and when her dearest
Laura had quite done with the verses, she tripped back and popped them
again into the pretty desk.

Then she went to her piano, and sang two or three songs of Rossini,
whose flourishes of music her flexible little voice could execute to
perfection, and Laura sate by, vaguely listening as she performed these
pieces. What was Miss Bell thinking about the while? She hardly knew;
but sate there silent as the songs rolled by. After this concert the
young ladies were summoned to the room where luncheon was served; and
whither they of course went with their arms round each other's waists.

And it could not have been jealousy or anger on Laura's part which had
made her silent; for, after they had tripped along the corridor and
descended the steps, and were about to open the door which leads into
the hall, Laura paused, and looking her friend kindly and frankly in the
face, kissed her with a sisterly warmth.

Something occurred after this--Master Frank's manner of eating,
probably, or mamma's blunders, or Sir Francis smelling of cigars--which
vexed Miss Blanche, and she gave way to that series of naughtinesses
whereof we have spoken, and which ended in the above little quarrel.

CHAPTER XXVI. A House full of Visitors

The difference between the girls did not last long. Laura was always
too eager to forgive and be forgiven, and as for Miss Blanche, her
hostilities, never very long or durable, had not been provoked by the
above scene. Nobody cares about being accused of wickedness. No vanity
is hurt by that sort of charge: Blanche was rather pleased than provoked
by her friend's indignation, which never would have been raised but for
a cause which both knew, thou