“Not a thing!—just the white and red. To think of it is like painting a picture. I can see you now, with your black hair falling in broad, heavy braids nearly to the shoulders; two or three long ringlets sweeping almost to the waist; just a little coronal of red roses over the forehead; and the dress sweeping away, fold after fold, like dancing white poppies over drifting snow. I tell you, Eva, it will be superb.” “But how is all this to be done, Ruth?” “I shall be bolstered up, and sew on it in the day-time. You will help me at night. I tell you, dear, it will be charming.” “And you, poor dear, will be left at home, and see nothing.” “What, I! Indeed, you know nothing about it. I shall just lie here, with my hands folded, so, and my eyes shut, thinking over everything as it happens. The way people will look at you, and whisper, ‘Who is that? Isn’t she—’ But I won’t tell you all that I shall see. Be sure you will not enjoy it more than I shall. Then there is James!—won’t it delight him?” “But mother! what if she forbids it?” said Eva, with sudden dismay. “She might, you know.” “We must get Mrs. Smith on our side,” said Ruth, faltering a little. “Mrs. Smith, and our James. She cannot stand out against them. But hush! she is at the door.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE HIDDEN PACKAGE. Herman Ross became a constant visitor at the Laurence cottage after his sister had called there. Sometimes he spent hours together in the little parlor, instructing Ruth in her art, and fairly opening a new world to the genius that burned within her. With all her practice she had gone astray in many things, and struggled for hours to produce an effect which he taught her to accomplish with a few dexterous touches of the pencil. His patience seemed inexhaustible; his kindness brought tears into her eyes whenever she thought of it. In a few days she had learned more than blind, unaided practice had done for her in years. Sometimes Ross saw Eva, but not often, for she came home from her duties late in the afternoon, and his visits seldom lasted till then; but he spoke of her frequently, and sometimes questioned Ruth about her, in a cautious way, as if the mention of her name brought some mental disturbance with it. “What, Eva older than I am? Dear, no!—far from it! I am nearly four years the elder,” she said, one day, in answer to his question. “It is because she is so tall and well-formed that you think so; but she is only nineteen, this month, while I am twenty-two.” “Only nineteen! Just nineteen?” “Just nineteen, this month!” “Tell me. Can you remember when she was born?” inquired Ross, more quickly than he usually spoke. “I can remember when she was a baby; the very first time I saw her was in father’s arms, coming through that door.” “And you remember nothing before that?” “No! How should I?” “Nothing whatever—no disturbance in the house; no—”