“Well, what of him?” said Waring, rather sharply. “I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would be droll. Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she can help it; and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; she is so docile--and so obedient----” “You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, or anything that offers? I don’t think she is so well brought up as that.” “I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing to her feet. “She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.” Waring’s face grew scarlet in the darkness. “I hope,” he said, “that I am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my daughter is a lady.” “You mean me!” she cried, breathless. “Oh, I can----” But here she stopped. “Papa,” she resumed, “what good will it do us to quarrel? I don’t want to quarrel. Instead of setting yourself against me because I am poor Con, and not Frances, whom you love---- Oh, I think you might be good to me just at this moment; for I am very lonely, and I don’t know what I am good for, and I think my heart will break.” She went to him quickly, and flung herself upon his shoulder, and cried. Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this appeal; but after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her. He put his arm round her, and said a few soothing words. “You may be good for a great deal, if you choose,” he said; “and if you will believe me, my dear, you will find that by far the most amusing way. You have more capabilities than Frances; you are much better educated than she is--at least I suppose so, for she was not educated at all.” “How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don’t expect to be amused; all that is over,” said Constance, in a dolorous tone. He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to consider whether he should be angry, but decided against it, and laughed instead. “You are not complimentary,” he said. “What I mean is, that if you sit still and think over your deprivations, you will inevitably be miserable; whereas, if you exert yourself a little, and make the best of the situation, you will very likely extract something that is amusing out of it. I have seen it happen so often in my experience.” “Ah,” said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew from him and went back to her chair. “I thought, perhaps, you meant something more positive. There are perhaps possibilities: Frances would have thought it wrong to look out for amusement--that must have been because you trained her so.” “Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, more food, more delight than others.” “Yes, yes,” she cried; “that is like me. Some people are more alive than others; that is what you mean, papa.”