Her two little sisters, with their
wide-awake eyes, had long ago put things together, and
conjectured. Every day they had some fresh mystery together, to
be imparted in garden walks and whispered talks.
"Lizzie, did you see how the tears came into Mimie's eyes when
Mr. Farquhar looked so displeased when she said good people were
always dull? I think she's in love." Mary said the last words
with grave emphasis, and felt like an oracle of twelve years of
age.
"I don't," said Lizzie. "I know I cry often enough when papa is
cross, and I'm not in love with him."
"Yes! but you don't look as Mimie did."
"Don't call her Mimie--you know papa does not like it?"
"Yes; but there are so many things papa does not like I can never
remember them all. Never mind about that; but listen to something
I've got to tell you, if you'll never, never tell."
"No, indeed I won't, Mary. What is it?"
"Not to Mrs. Denbigh?"
"No, not even to Mrs. Denbigh."
"Well, then, the other day--last Friday, Mimie----"
"Jemima!" interrupted the more conscientious Elizabeth.
"Jemima, if it must be so," jerked out Mary, "sent me to her desk
for an envelope, and what do you think I saw?"
"What?" asked Elizabeth, expecting nothing else than a red-hot
Valentine, signed Walter Farquhar, pro Bradshaw, Farquhar, & Co.,
in full.
"Why, a piece of paper, with dull-looking lines upon it, just
like the scientific dialogues; and I remember all about it.
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