Wallace Milo was twenty-eight, and over-tall, so that he carried himself with an almost apologetic drooping stoop, as if he were conscious of his length and sought to make it less noticeable. It was an added misfortune in his eyes that he was spare. In sharp contrast to his sister, he was pale--a paleness accentuated by his dark hair, which was thick, and slightly curly, and piled itself up in an unconquerable pompadour that added to his height. Those who saw Mrs. Milo and Sue together invariably remarked, "Isn't the devotion of mother and daughter perfectly beautiful!" Just as surely did these same people observe, when they saw brother and sister side by side, "There are two children who look as if they aren't even related." Alan Farvel, though only a dozen years the senior of Wallace, had the look and the bearing of a man much older than forty. His face was deep lined, and his hair was well grayed. But his eyes were young; blue and smiling, they transformed his whole face. It was as if his face had registered the responsibilities and worries that his eyes had never recognized. He was speaking. "I know exactly how you feel, Wallace. I think every decent chap feels like that the day before he marries. He wants to look back on every year, and search out every mean thought, and every unworthy action--if there is one. But"--he reached to take the other's hand--"you needn't be blaming yourself, old man. Ha-ha-a-a! Don't I know you! Why, bless the ridiculous boy, you couldn't do a downright bad thing if you wanted to! You're the very soul of honor." Wallace got to his feet--started, rather, as if there was something which Farvel's words had all but driven him to say, but which he was striving to keep back. Resolutely he looked out of the window, swaying a little, with one hand holding to the edge of the table so tightly that his finger-ends were bloodless. "The very soul of honor," repeated Farvel, watching the half-averted face. Wallace sank down. "Oh, Alan," he began huskily, "I'll treat her right--tenderly and--and honorably. I love her--I can't tell you how I love her." Farvel did not speak for a moment. Then, "Everybody loves her," he said, huskily too. "Oh, not the right way--not her parents, I mean. They haven't ever considered her--you know that. She hasn't had a home--or happiness." He touched his eyes with the back of a hand. "Make her happy." Farvel's voice was deep with feeling. "She's had all the things money can buy. Now--give her what is priceless." "I will! I will!" "Faithfulness, and unselfish love, and tenderness when she's ill, and--best of all, Wallace,--peace. Don't ever let the first quarrel----" "Quarrel!"