“Sofa?” said Rosa.

“Yes; I understand the children greased the sofa in Mrs. Seymour’s boudoir.”

“Oh, dear, no! nothing of the sort; I’ve been putting every thing to rights in all the rooms, and they look beautifully.”

“Didn’t they break something?”

“Oh, no, nothing!  The little things were good as could be.”

“That Leaning Tower, and that little Diana,” suggested John.

“Oh, dear me, no!  I broke those a month ago, and showed them to Mrs. Seymour, and promised to mend them.  Oh! she knows all about that.”

“Ah!” said John, “I didn’t know that.  Well, Rosa, put every thing up nicely, and divide this money among the girls for extra trouble,” he added, slipping a bill into her hand.

“I’m sure there’s no trouble,” said Rosa.  “We all enjoyed it; and I believe everybody did; only I’m sorry it was too much for Mrs. Seymour; she is very delicate.”

“Yes, she is,” said John, as he turned away, drawing a long, slow sigh.

That long, slow sigh had become a frequent and unconscious occurrence with him of late.  When our ideals are sick unto death; when they are slowly dying and passing away from us, we sigh thus.  John said to himself softly,—­no matter what; but he felt the pang of knowing again what he had known so often of late, that his Lillie’s word was not golden.  What she said would not bear close examination.  Therefore, why examine?

“Evidently, she is determined that this thing shall not go on,” said John.  “Well, I shall never try again; it’s of no use;” and John went up to his sister’s, and threw himself down upon the old chintz sofa as if it had been his mother’s bosom.  His sister sat there, sewing.  The sun came twinkling through a rustic frame-work of ivy which it had been the pride of her heart to arrange the week before.  All the old family pictures and heirlooms, and sketches and pencillings, were arranged in the most charming way, so that her rooms seemed a reproduction of the old home.

“Hang it all!” said John, with a great flounce as he turned over on the sofa.  “I’m not up to par this morning.”

Now, Grace had that perfect intuitive knowledge of just what the matter was with her brother, that women always have who have grown up in intimacy with a man.  These fine female eyes see farther between the rough cracks and ridges of the oak bark of manhood than men themselves.  Nothing would have been easier, had Grace been a jealous exigeante woman, than to have passed a fine probe of sisterly inquiry into the weak places where the ties between John and Lillie were growing slack, and untied and loosened them more and more.  She could have done it so tenderly, so conscientiously, so pityingly,—­encouraging John to talk and to complain, and taking part with him,—­till there should come to be two parties in the family, the brother and sister against the wife.

How strong the temptation was, those may feel who reflect that this one subject caused an almost total eclipse of the life-long habit of confidence which had existed between Grace and her brother, and that her brother was her life and her world.