“Well, Fanny, dear!”

“Well, Alfred, dear!” and Fanny leaned toward him, with her head poised like that of a black snake.  Alfred was fascinated.  Perhaps he was sorry he was so; perhaps he wanted to struggle.  But he did not.  He was under the spell.

There was still a lingering silence.  Fanny waited patiently.  At length she asked again, putting her hand in her lover’s: 

“Are you ready?”

“Yes!” said Alfred, in a crisp, resolute tone.

Fanny raised her hand and rang the bell.  The waiter appeared.

“John, I want a carriage immediately.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And, John, tell Mary to bring me my things.  I am going out.”

“Yes, Miss.”  And hearing nothing farther, John disappeared.

It was perhaps a judicious instinct which taught Fanny not to leave Alfred alone by going up to array herself in her own chamber.  The intervals of delay between the coming of the maid and the coming of the carriage the young woman employed in conversing dexterously about Boston, and the friends he had seen there, and in describing to him the great Kingfisher ball.

Presently she was bonneted and cloaked, and the carriage was at the door.

Her home had not been a Paradise to Fanny Newt—­nor were Aunt Dagon, Papa and Mamma Newt, and brother Abel altogether angels.  She had no superfluous emotions of any kind at any time; but as she passed through the hall she saw her sister May—­the youngest child—­a girl of sixteen—­Uncle Lawrence’s favorite—­standing upon the stairs.

She said nothing; the hall was quite dim, and as the girl stood in the half light her childlike, delicate beauty seemed to Fanny more striking than ever.  If Uncle Lawrence had seen her at the moment he would have thought of Jacob’s ladder and the angels ascending and descending.

“Good-by, May!” said Fanny, going up to her sister, taking her face between her hands and kissing her lips.

The sisters looked at each other, each inexplicably conscious that it was not an ordinary farewell.

“Good-by, darling!” said Fanny, kissing her again, and still holding her young, lovely face.

Touched and surprised by the unwonted tenderness of her sister’s manner, May threw her arms around her neck and burst into tears.

“Oh!  Fanny.”

Fanny did not disengage the arms that clung about her, nor raise the young head that rested upon her shoulder.  Perhaps she felt that somehow it was a benediction.

May raised her head at length, kissed Fanny gently upon the lips, smoothed her black hair for a moment with her delicate hand, half smiled through her tears as she thought that after this indication of affection she should have such a pleasant intercourse with her sister, and then pushed her softly away, saying,

“Mr. Dinks is waiting for you, Fanny.”

Fanny said nothing, but drew her veil over her face, and Mr. Dinks handed her into the carriage.