oval,—­than her sister’s.  The shape of the forehead was, I think, the same, but with Bell the chin was something more slender and delicate.  But Bell’s chin was unmarked, whereas on her sister’s there was a dimple which amply compensated for any other deficiency in its beauty.  Bell’s teeth were more even than her sister’s; but then she showed her teeth more frequently.  Her lips were thinner, and, as I cannot but think, less expressive.  Her nose was decidedly more regular in its beauty, for Lily’s nose was somewhat broader than it should have been.  It may, therefore, be understood that Bell would be considered the beauty by the family.

But there was, perhaps, more in the general impression made by these girls, and in the whole tone of their appearance, than in the absolute loveliness of their features or the grace of their figures.  There was about them a dignity of demeanour devoid of all stiffness or pride, and a maidenly modesty which gave itself no airs.  In them was always apparent that sense of security which women should receive from an unconscious dependence on their own mingled purity and weakness.  These two girls were never afraid of men,—­never looked as though they were so afraid.  And I may say that they had little cause for that kind of fear to which I allude.  It might be the lot of either of them to be ill-used by a man, but it was hardly possible that either of them should ever be insulted by one.  Lily, as may, perhaps, have been already seen, could be full of play, but in her play she never so carried herself that any one could forget what was due to her.

And now Lily Dale was engaged to be married, and the days of her playfulness were over.  It sounds sad, this sentence against her, but I fear that it must be regarded as true.  And when I think that it is true,—­when I see that the sportiveness and kitten-like gambols of girlhood should be over, and generally are over, when a girl has given her troth, it becomes a matter of regret to me that the feminine world should be in such a hurry after matrimony.  I have, however, no remedy to offer for the evil; and, indeed, am aware that the evil, if there be an evil, is not well expressed in the words I have used.  The hurry is not for matrimony, but for love.  Then, the love once attained, matrimony seizes it for its own, and the evil is accomplished.

And Lily Dale was engaged to be married to Adolphus Crosbie,—­to Apollo Crosbie, as she still called him, confiding her little joke to his own ears.  And to her he was an Apollo, as a man who is loved should be to the girl who loves him.  He was handsome, graceful, clever, self-confident, and always cheerful when she asked him to be cheerful.  But he had also his more serious moments, and could talk to her of serious matters.  He would read to her, and explain to her things which had hitherto been too hard for her young intelligence.  His voice, too, was pleasant, and well under command.  It could be pathetic if pathos were required, or ring with laughter as merry as her own.  Was not such a man fit to be an Apollo to such a girl, when once the girl had acknowledged to herself that she loved him?