“Well,” said Blue, stoutly, “he might, you know.  Such things happen.”

“I don’t think it’s quite nice to think of it,” said Red, meditatively.

“It isn’t nice,” said Blue, agreeing perfectly, but unwilling to recant; “still, it may be our duty to think of it.  Sophia said once that a woman was always more or less responsible if a man fell in love with her.”

“Did Sophia say that?” Weighty worlds of responsibility seemed to be settling on little Red’s shoulders.

“Yes; she was talking to mamma about something.  So, as it’s quite possible he might fall in love with us, we ought to consider the matter.”

“You don’t think he’s falling in love with Eliza, do you?”

“Oh no!”—­promptly—­“but then Eliza isn’t like us.”

Red looked at her pretty face in the glass as she continued to smooth out the brown curls.  She thought of Eliza’s tall figure, immobile white face, and crown of red hair.

“No,” she said, meditatively; “but, Blue”—­this quite seriously—­“I hope he won’t fall in love with us.”

“Oh, so do I; for it would make him feel so miserable.  But I think, Red, when you looked down you did not look prim enough—­you know papa said ‘prim.’  Now, you stand, and I’ll do it.”

So Blue now passed down the little narrow room, but when she came to the critical spot, the supposed meeting ground, her desire to laugh conflicting with the effort to pull a long face, caused such a wry contortion of her plump visage that seriousness deserted them once more, and they bubbled over in mirth that would have been boisterous had it not been prudently muffled in the pillows.

After that they said their prayers.  But when they had taken off the clumsy dressing-gowns and got into the feather-bed under the big patchwork quilt, like two little white rabbits nestling into one another, they reverted once more to their father’s instructions for meeting the dentist, and giggled themselves to sleep.

Another pair of talkers, also with some common attributes of character, but with less knowledge of each other, were astir after these sisters had fallen asleep.

Most of the rooms in the house were on the ground-floor, but there were two attic bedrooms opening off a very large room in the roof which the former occupant had used as a granary.  One of these Sophia occupied with a child; the other had been given to Eliza.  That night, when Sophia was composing herself to sleep, she heard Eliza weeping.  So smothered were the sounds of sorrow that she could hardly hear them.  She lifted her head, listened, then, putting a long fur cloak about her, went into the next room.

No sooner was her hand on the latch of Eliza’s door than all sound ceased.  She stood for a minute in the large, dark granary.  The draught in it was almost great enough to be called a breeze, and it whispered in the eaves which the sloping rafters made round the edges of the floor as a wind might sigh in some rocky cave.  Sophia opened the door and went in.