The features, neck, and bosom of the girl, on receiving this communication, were overspread with one general blush, and she stood, for a few moments, irresolute and confused.  In the mean time Peety had passed on, and after a pause of a few minutes, she looked at the letter more attentively, and slowly broke it open.  It was probably the first epistle she had ever received, and we need scarcely say that, as a natural consequence, she was by no means quick in deciphering written hand.  Be this as it may, after having perused a few lines she started, looked at the bottom for the name, then at the letter again; and as her sister Hanna joined her, that brow on which a frown had been seldom ever seen to sit, was now crimson with indignation.

“Why, gracious goodness!” exclaims Hanna, “what is this, Kathleen?  Something has vexed you!—­ha! a love-letter, too!  In airnest, what ails you? an’ who is the letter from, if it’s fair to ax?”

“The letter is not for me,” replied Kathleen, putting it into her sister’s hand, “but when you read it you won’t wonder that I’m angry.”

As Hanna began to go slowly through it, she first laughed, but on proceeding a little further her brow also reddened, and her whole features expressed deep and unequivocal resentment.  Having concluded the perusal of this mysterious document, she, looked at her sister, who, in return, gazed upon her.

“Well, Kathleen, after all,” said Hanna, “it’s not worth while losing one’s temper about it.  Never think of it again; only to punish him, I’d advise you, the next time you see Peety, to send it back.”

“You don’t suppose, Hanna, that I intended to keep it; but indeed,” she added, with a smile; “it is not worth while bein’ angry about.”

As the sisters stood beside each other, holding this short conversation, it would be difficult to find any two females more strikingly dissimilar both in figure, features, and complexion.  Hanna was plain, but not disagreeable, especially when her face became animated with good humor.  Her complexion, though not at all of a sickly hue, was of that middle tint which is neither pale nor sallow, but holds an equivocal position between both.  Her hair was black, but dull, and without that peculiar gloss which accompanies either the very snowy skin of a fair beauty, or, at least, the rich brown hue of a brunette.  Her figure was in no way remarkable, and she was rather under the middle size.

Her sister, however, was a girl who deserves at our hands a more accurate and lengthened description.  Kathleen Cavanagh was considerably above the middle size, her figure, in fact, being of the tallest; but no earthly form could surpass it in symmetry, and that voluptuous fulness of outline, which, when associated with a modest and youthful style of beauty, is, of all others, the most fascinating and irresistible.  The whiteness of her unrivalled skin, and the gloss of health which shone from it were almost dazzling.