“So then (now you may learn what these skim-milk cheeses are made of), when he found he was my aversion, he fell in love with me again as hot as ever; tried all he could think of to win me back; wrote a letter every day; came to me every other day; and when he saw it was all over for good between us he cried and bellowed till my hate all went, and scorn came in its place.  Next time we met he played quite another part—­the calm, heart-broken Christian; gave me his blessing; went down on his knees, and prayed a beautiful prayer, that took me off my guard and made me almost respect him; then went away, and quietly married the girl with money; and six months after wrote to me he was miserable, dated from the vicarage her parents had got him.”

“Now, you know, if he wasn’t a parson, d—­n me if I’d turn in to-night till I’d rope’s-ended that lubber!”

“As if I’d let you dirty your hands with such rubbish!  I sent the note back to him with just one line, ’Such a fool as you are has no right to be a villain.’  There, David, there is your poor sister’s life.  Oh, what I went through for that man!  Often I said, is Heaven just, to let a poor, faithful, loving girl, who has done no harm, be played with on the hook, and tortured hot and cold, day after day, month after month, year after year, as I was?  But now I see why it was permitted; it was for your sake, that you might profit by my sharp experience, and not fling your heart away on frozen mud, as I did;” and, happy in this feminine theory of Divine justice, Eve rested on her brother a look that would have adorned a seraph, then took him gently round the neck and laid her little cheek flat to his.

She felt as if she had just saved a beloved life.

Who can estimate the value of a happiness so momentary, yet so holy?

Presently looking up, she saw David’s face illuminated.  “What is it?” she asked joyously; “you look pleased.”

David was “pleased because now he was sure she could feel for him, and would side with him.”

“That I do; but, David, as it is all over between you and her—­”

“All over?  Am I dead then?”

Eve gasped with astonishment:  “Why, what have I been telling you all this for?”

“Who should you tell your trouble to but your own brother?  Why, Eve—­ha! ha!—­you don’t really see any likeness between your case and mine, do you?  You are not so blind as to compare her with that thundering muff?”

“They are brother and sister, as we are,” was the reply.  “Ever since I saw you looked her way, my eye has hardly been off her, and she is Henry Dyke in petticoats.”