Henrietta, thinking over the matter, found there was no reason why she should not go. At twenty-seven she felt herself rather older than this generation at forty-eight, and thought it ridiculous that she should be going to a dance. But once she was there, Louie made her feel so much at home, she found her remarks were so warmly welcomed, and her few hesitating sallies so much enjoyed, that she began to think that after all she was not completely on the shelf. "Don't go to-morrow, Etta--stay here. There's the Steeplechase on Friday; I want you to see that." "No, thank you, Louie," said Henrietta; "I can't leave mother longer. It's been very delightful, more delightful than you can realize, perhaps--you're so much accustomed to it; but I must get back." "Now, that really is nonsense, Etta. Mother has Ellen, and she has father, and she is pretty well for her; you said so yourself." But Henrietta persisted in her refusal, for she had all the strong, though sometimes unthinking, sense of duty of her generation. "Well, if you will go, you must. But now you have begun coming, come often. Write a line whenever you like and propose yourself." As they said good-night, Louie whispered, "Have you forgiven me, Etty?" "Yes," said Henrietta, "that's all past and gone." "For a matter of fact," said Louie, "he is not very happy with her; they don't get on. The Moffats know him, and Mrs. Moffatt told me." "Oh, I am sorry," said Henrietta, but she was not displeased. Evelyn stayed behind, and Louie talked Henrietta over with her. "Poor," ever since her marriage Henrietta had been "poor" to Louie, "Poor Etta really isn't bad-looking, and when she gets animated she isn't unattractive. If I could have her here often, I believe I could do something for her." When Evelyn came home a week or so later, she had an announcement to make. She had become engaged to an officer, a friend of the Carringtons, who had been staying in the house. He was delightful, the engagement was everything that was to be desired, and Evelyn was radiant. Henrietta knew that such an announcement was bound to come sooner or later, but she had so longed for a few years' happy intercourse together. She tried to think only of Evelyn, but she could not keep back all that was in her mind. "Think of me left all alone. It was so dreary, and when you came you made everything different. Now it will go back to what it was before." "No, no, Etty darling; you will come and stay with us for months and months." "No, I shan't. When you have got him you won't want me." "Yes, I shall. I shall want you all the more. I love you more than I've ever done in my life, my darling sister. We've always been special, we two, haven't we, ever since I can remember?" Henrietta was a little comforted, and did not realize that though Evelyn's tenderness was absolutely sincere, it came from the strange expansion of the heart which accompanies true love, and was not habitual.