Alice was as unlike her father, except in certain race qualities of integrity and common-sense, as if she were of different blood.  She was the youngest of five maiden sisters, and had arrived at the mature age of eighteen.  Slender in figure, with a grace that was half shyness, soft brown hair, gray eyes that changed color and could as easily be sad as merry, a face marked with a moving dimple that every one said was lovely, retiring in manner and yet not lacking spirit nor a sly wit of her own.  Now and then, yes, very often, out of some paradise, no doubt, strays into New England conditions of reticence and self-denial such a sweet spirit, to diffuse a breath of heaven in its atmosphere, and to wither like a rose ungathered.  These are the New England nuns, not taking any vows, not self-consciously virtuous, apparently untouched by the vanities of the world.  Marriage?  It is not in any girl’s nature not to think of that, not to be in a flutter of pleasure or apprehension at the attentions of the other sex.  Who has been able truly to read the thoughts of a shrinking maiden in the passing days of her youth and beauty?  In this harmonious and unselfish household, each with decided individual character, no one ever intruded upon the inner life of the other.  No confidences were given in the deep matters of the heart, no sign except a blush over a sly allusion to some one who had been “attentive.”  If you had stolen a look into the workbasket or the secret bureau-drawer, you might have found a treasured note, a bit of ribbon, a rosebud, some token of tenderness or of friendship that was growing old with the priestess who cherished it.  Did they not love flowers, and pets, and had they not a passion for children?  Were there not moonlight evenings when they sat silent and musing on the stone steps, watching the shadows and the dancing gleams on the swift river, when the air was fragrant with the pink and the lilac?  Not melancholy this, nor poignantly sad, but having in it nevertheless something of the pathos of life unfulfilled.  And was there not sometimes, not yet habitually, coming upon these faces, faces plain and faces attractive, the shade of renunciation?

Phil loved Alice devotedly.  She was his confidante, his defender, but he feared more the disapproval of her sweet eyes when he had done wrong than the threatened punishment of his uncle.

“I only meant to be gone just a little while,” Phil went on to say.

“And you were away the whole afternoon.  It is a pity the days are so short.  And you don’t know what you lost.”

“No great, I guess.”

“Celia and her mother were here.  They stayed all the afternoon.”

“Celia Howard?  Did she wonder where I was?”

“I don’t know.  She didn’t say anything about it.  What a dear little thing she is!”

“And she can say pretty cutting things.”

“Oh, can she?  Perhaps you’d better run down to the village before dark and take her these flowers.”