"And you, Valmai, how sweet." And again they embraced each other. "I have no dress to change for dinner, dear. Do you dress?" "Oh, only just a little, and I won't at all this evening. How strange we should both be in mourning, too! Mine is for Mrs. Power's sister. Who are you wearing black for?" A hot blush suffused Valmai's face and neck as she answered slowly: "I am not in mourning, but thought black would be nice to travel in. I generally wear white." "How strange! so do I," said Gwladys; "white or something very light. Shall we go down, dear? Would you like a bedroom to yourself, or shall we sleep together?" "Oh, let us sleep together!" And with arms thrown over each other's shoulders, they descended the broad staircase, just as Mrs. Power, in answer to William's summons, was crossing the hall to the dining-room. "Here we are, auntie, or here I am and here is she." "Come along, then, my dears." "Well, indeed, I never did," said William, when he entered the kitchen; "no, I never, never did see such a likeness between two young leddies. They are the same picture as each other! And missus says to me, 'William,' she says, 'this is Miss Gwladys's sister, her twin-sister,' she says, 'Miss Valmai Powell.' And I couldn't say nothing, if you believe me, with my eyes as big as saucers. Ach y fi! there's an odd thing!" In the drawing-room after dinner there were endless questions and answers, each one seeming to find in the other's history a subject of the deepest interest. Mrs. Besborough Power, especially, with her nose in the air, sometimes looking over her spectacles, and sometimes under them, sometimes through them, did not hesitate to question Valmai on the minutest particulars of her life hitherto--questions which the latter found it rather difficult to answer without referring to the last eighteen months. "H'm!" said Mrs. Power, for the twentieth time, "and ever since your father's death you have been living with your uncle?" "With my uncles, first one and then the other; and the last few months with dear Nance, my old nurse." "What! Nance Owen? Is she alive still?" "Yes; she is, indeed." "She must be very old now?" "Yes, and frail; but as loving and tender as ever." And so on, and so on, until bed-time; and the two girls were once more together in their bedroom. The maid, who was deeply interested in the strange visitor, lingered about the toilet-table a little unnecessarily, until Gwladys, in a voice which, though not unkind, showed she was more accustomed to command than Valmai, said: "That will do, thank you, I will do my own hair to-night. My sister and I wish to talk." And, having dismissed Maria, she drew two cosy chairs round the wood fire. "Come along, Valmai, now we can chat to our heart's content." And soon, with feet on fender and hair unloosed, the sisters talked and talked, as if making up for the long years of silence which had divided them.