“Showers and clouds and winds,
       All things well and proper;
     Trailer, red and white,
       Dark and wily dropper. 
     Midges true to fling
       Made of plover hackle,
     With a gaudy wing,
       And a cobweb tackle.”

“Cobweb tackle, eh, Charlotte?  Yes, certainly; for a hand that can manage it.  Lancie Crossthwaite will land you a trout, three pounds weight, with a line that wouldn’t lift a dead weight of one pound from the floor to the table.  I’ll uphold he will.  Eh?  What?”

“I’ll do it myself, some day; see if I don’t, father.”

“I’ve no doubt of it, Charlotte; not a bit.”  Then being in the entrance-hall, they parted with a smile of confidence, and Charlotte hastened up-stairs to prepare herself for the evening meal.  She gave one quick glance at her grandmother’s picture as she passed it, a glance of mingled deprecation and annoyance; for there were times when the complacent serenity of the perfect face, and the perfect propriety of the white satin gown, gave her a little spasm of indignation.

She dressed rapidly, with a certain deft grace that was part of her character.  And it was a delightful surprise to watch the metamorphosis; the more so, as it went on with a perfect unconsciousness of its wonderful beauty.  Here a change, and there a change, until the bright brown hair was loosened from its net of knotted silk, to fall in wavy, curly masses; and the printed gown was exchanged for one of the finest muslin, pink and flowing, and pinned together with bows of pale blue satin.  A daring combination, which precisely suited her blonde, brilliant beauty.  Her eyes were shining; her cheeks touched by the sun till they had the charming tints of a peach on a southern wall.  She looked at herself with a little nod of satisfaction, and then tapped at the door of the room adjoining her own.  It was Miss Sandal’s room; and Miss Sandal, though only sixteen months older than Charlotte, exacted all the deference due to her by the right of primogeniture.

“Come in, Charlotte.”

“How did you know it was I?”

“I know your knock, however you vary it.  Nobody knocks like you.  I suppose no two people would make three taps just the same.”  She was far too polite to yawn; but she made as much of the movement as she could not control, and then put a mark in her book, and laid it down.  A very different girl, indeed, was she from her younger sister; a stranger would never have suspected her of the same parentage.

She had dark, fine eyes, which, however, did not express what she felt:  they rather gave the idea of storing up impressions to be re-acted upon by some interior power.  She had a delicate complexion, a great deal of soft, black hair compactly dressed, and a neat figure.  Her disposition was dreamy and self-willed; occult studies fascinated her, and she was passionately fond of moonlight.  She was simply dressed in a