“Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!” said Christine, tenderly approaching her.  “I am your sister; if you have any sorrow, why may I not sympathize with you?  How can you be sorrowful? you never meet with neglect, and—­” the young girl paused hastily, with a suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she had previously so carefully concealed under the mask of callous indifference—­she had shown that she felt keenly her own position, and that of her sister as a favourite.  Ann was proud of her intellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond of admiration.  She knew that her sister was really as gifted as herself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, when her cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm.  She had seen her, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when expression had lit up her face with a positive beauty—­when the soul, the life of beauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill that acknowledged its power.  She knew that she would have been brilliant and fascinating, if she had not been repressed; with all her faults, there was a more feminine yieldingness about her, than about herself.  There was an affectionate pathos in her voice, a tender grace in her air, when she asked to sympathize in her sorrow.  Ann felt for the first time fully, that she was one to love, and be beloved in the social circle.  She felt that she had been most ungenerous to absorb all the attention of her friends, instead of bringing forward the reserved, sensitive Christine.  The sisters had never been much together; they had never made confidants of each other;—­Ann was the eldest, and all in all with her parents, while Christine was a sort of appendage.  Ann felt the unintentional reproach conveyed in her last words; she marked how quickly she stopped, and seemed to retire within herself again; she scanned her face closely, and generous feelings triumphed.

“Dear Christine!” she said in a low voice, passing her arm around her.  “We have never been to each other what sisters ought to be.  I have been too thoughtless and careless; I have not remembered as I should have done, that you returned from school, a stranger to the majority of our friends and acquaintances.  You are so reserved, even here at home; you never talk and laugh with father and mother as I do.”

“Do you know why I appear cold, Ann?  I am not so by nature.  They do not seem to care when I speak, and I am not yet humble enough to have what I say treated with perfect indifference.”

“Why, Christine, you are too sensitive,” said Ann, half impatiently.  “Be as noisy and lively as I am; entertain father, and say what will please mother; then you will be as great a pet as I.”