“Never told me?  Never told me?  Who asked you to tell me?  I have eyes, if you have none.”

“Eve,” said David imploringly, “I don’t hear of any lover that she has.  Do you?”

“No,” said Eve carelessly.  “But who knows?  She passes half the year a hundred miles from this, and there are young men everywhere.  If she was a milkmaid, they’d turn to look at her with such a face and figure as that, much more a young lady with every grace and every charm.  She has more than one after her that we never see, take my word.”

Eve had no sooner said this than she regretted it, for David’s face quivered, and he sighed like one trying to recover his breath after a terrible blow.

What made this and the succeeding conversation the more trying and peculiar was, that the presence of other persons in the room, though at a considerable distance, compelled both brother and sister, though anything but calm, to speak sotto voce. But in the history of mankind more strange and incongruous matter has been dealt with in an undertone, and with artificial and forced calmness.

“My poor David!” said Eve sorrowfully; “you who used to be so proud, so high-spirited, be a man!  Don’t throw away such a treasure as your affection.  For my sake, dear David, your sister’s sake, who does love you so very, very dearly!”

“And I love you, Eve.  Thank you.  It was hard lines.  Ah!  But it is wholesome, no doubt, like most bitters.  Yes.  Thank you, Eve.  I do admire her v-very much,” and his voice faltered a little.  “But I am a man for all that, and I’ll stand to my own words.  I’ll never be any woman’s slave.”

“That is right, David.”

“I will not give hot for cold, nor my heart for a smile or two.  I can’t help admiring her, and I do hope she will be—­happy—­ah!—­whoever she fancies.  But, if I am never to command her, I won’t carry a willow at my mast-head, and drift away from reason and manhood, and my duty to you, and mother, and myself.”

“Ah!  David, if you could see how noble you look now.  Is it a promise, David? for I know you will keep your word if once you pass it.”

“There is my hand on it, Eve.”

The brother and sister grasped hands, and when David was about to withdraw his, Eve’s soft but vigorous little hand closed tighter and kept it firmer, and so they sat in silence.

“Eve.”

“My dear!”

“Now don’t you be cross.”

“No, dear.  Eve is sad, not cross; what is it?

“Well, Eve—­dear Eve.”

“Don’t be afraid to speak your mind to me—­why should you?”

“Well, then, Eve, now, if she had not some little kindness for me, would she be so pleased with these thundering yarns I keep spinning her, as old as Adam, and as stale as bilge-water?  You that are so keen, how comes it you don’t notice her eyes at these times?  I feel them shine on me like a couple of suns.  They would make a statue pay the yarn out.  Who ever fancied my chat as she does?”