The rest of the evening passed very pleasantly.  I had a long conversation with Miss Gillespie in the inner drawing-room while Sara and Jill played duets:  of course our subject was Jill.  Miss Gillespie spoke most warmly of her excellent abilities and fine development of character.  ’She will be a very striking woman,’ she finished, when the last chords were played and a soft clapping of hands succeeded.  ’Whether she will be a happy one is more doubtful:  she must not be thwarted too much, and she must have room to expand.  Jocelyn wants space and sunshine.’

I thought these remarks very sensible; they taught me that Miss Gillespie had grasped the true idea of Jill’s character.  There was nothing little about Jill:  she never did things by halves:  she either loved or hated.  She was truthful to a fault.  There was a massive freedom and simplicity about her that would guide her safely through the world’s pitfalls.  ‘Space and sunshine,’ that was all Jill needed to bring her to maturity and fruition.  Some girls may be trusted to educate themselves.  Jill was one of these.

The next morning Sara took possession of me.  A great honour was to be vouchsafed me:  I was to be treated to a private view of the trousseau and wedding-presents.

I had exhausted my vocabulary of admiring epithets, and sat in eloquent silence, long before Sara had finished her display.  It was like the picture of Pandora opening her box, to see the pretty creature opening the big, carved wardrobe to show me the layers of delicate embroidered raiment, muslin and laces and jewels, curious trinkets and wonderful gifts worthy of the Arabian Nights.  There were two rooms full of treasures that had been laid at her feet, and no doubt, like Pandora, Sara had the rainbow-tinted hope lying amid the bridal gifts.

‘This is Donald’s present,’ she said, smiling, showing me a diamond spray.  ’I am to wear it on Thursday:  it is the loveliest present of all,—­though mother has given me that beautiful pearl necklace.’

‘Wait a moment, Sara,’ I said, detaining her as she closed the morocco case:  ’tell me, do you not feel like a princess in fairy-land, with all this glitter round you?  Does it all seem real, somehow?’

‘Donald is real, anyhow,’ she returned, with a charming blush.  ’Nothing would be real without him.  Oh, Ursula, it is nice to be so happy!  I always have been happier than other girls.’  And something like a tear stole to her pretty eyes.

‘Now you must see your own dress,’ she continued, brushing off the tiny tear-drop, with a laugh at her own sentimentality.  ’What do you think of that?  Is that not charming taste?’

‘It is far too good for me,’ I returned seriously.  ’How could Uncle Brain buy that for me?  It is beautiful; it is perfect, and just my taste.’  And then I could say no more, for Sara had placed her hands across my lips to silence me.