“Who have nothing to do but amuse themselves and others. It is all very nice in cousins and brothers to know how to run our sewing-machines and how our dresses should be trimmed and ought to hang, but we wish our husbands to be different from that; wish them to have some aim in life—some occupation, and you have none. You have never done anything toward earning your own living. Your father is rich, it is true, and able to support you, but it is more manly to support one’s self—don’t you think so?” She spoke very gently, but every word was a sting, and hurt Phil, if possible, more than her rejection of him had done. “Yes, I see,” he answered bitterly. “You think me a lazy dog, whom people generally despise, and so I am, but it is very hard to hear it from you, Queenie; hard to know that I have neither your love nor your respect, when, fool that I was, I believed I had both.” “And so you have, Phil; so you have,” Reinette said, eagerly, touched by the grieved, hopeless expression of his face, which was not at all like Phil’s face, usually so bright and happy. “You have both my love and respect—love as a sister—for neither Ethel nor Grace can love you better than I do, in a certain way, and I respect and esteem you as the kindest, and best, and most unselfish Phil in all the world. Don’t, Phil, oh, don’t cry!” she continued, in a tone of agonized entreaty, as the great tears, which he could not restrain, rolled down his white face, which was convulsed with pain. “If you cry like that, I shall wish I were dead, and I almost wish so now,” she added, frightened by the storm of sobs and tears to which he at last gave vent. She was still kneeling by him, and she crept down closer to him, and took his hands from his face, where he had put them, and wiped his tears away, while her own fell fast as she tried to comfort him and could not, for in only one way could she do that, and, with her view of the matter that was impossible. On that point she was as firm and conscientious as the most rigid Roman Catholic. To marry her cousin would be wicked, and so there was no hope for him in that way; but may be she could comfort him in another, and she said, at last: “Phil, I can never marry you; that is just as impossible as for your sister to do it, but I can promise never to marry any one else. That would not be hard, for I do not believe I shall ever see any one for whom I care as I do for you; and, if you wish it, I’ll swear to remain single for your sake forever. Shall I?” “No, Queenie; no. I am not so selfish as that,” he said. “You ought to marry; you need a husband here at Hetherton Place—somebody with energy and will, and not an effeminate idler like me.” He was still smarting from the hurt of her last objection to him, and he went on: “Whether you marry or not cannot affect me, for I am going away—going to do something and be a man, whom you will never taunt again with his laziness and sloth.”