"Oh, and, Miss Etta," she said, "what a sight you did think of Miss Evie! I never knew a child take so to anyone before. 'She's quite a little mother,' I often used to say to Sarah. Do you remember Sarah? She died only last year; she suffered dreadful with her heart. Do you remember how you always would go to put your hand into the water before I gave Miss Evie her bath, because you wanted to be sure it wasn't too hot? Every evening you did it; and one day you were out late, and Miss Evie was in bed before you came in, and you cried because you hadn't been able to do it." Neither sister found it easy to speak, but Ellen wanted very little encouragement. "Sometimes as a great treat, when you was a little older, Miss Evie, I let you sleep in Miss Etty's bed, and she used to lay and cuddle you so pretty. And the canary, Miss Etta--do you remember that? When Miss Evie's dickie died, you went all the way to Willstead by yourself and bought a new canary, so that she might never know her dickie died. Your mamma was very angry with you, I remember; but there was nothing you wouldn't do for Miss Evie." The sisters walked back in silence; their hearts were too full for speech. There was no time for private conversation till night, when Evelyn came into Henrietta's room, and flung her arms round her. "Darling, darling Etta," she said, "I could hardly bear it, when Ellen was talking. To think of all that you were to me, all that you did for me, and that I should have forgotten it. Oh, how is it that we've got apart?" "I don't know," said Henrietta; "I don't think there is anything much to like in me. No one does care for me. I think if no one likes one, one doesn't deserve to be liked." "Oh, nothing in this life goes by deserts." "People love you, and they're quite right; you ought to be loved. You did care for me once, though. Herbert wrote--you know, when we lost--'A good cry with you will be more comfort to Evelyn than anything else.' Even then, in the middle of it all, it made me happy." "Oh, Etta, what you were to me then!" Henrietta took Evelyn's hand and squeezed it convulsively. When she could speak, she said: "Evelyn, do you ever think of our children?" "Think of them--of course I do. Do you, Etta?" "I used to, but I tried not to--it was too bitter. The children were what I lived for, and I don't think of them often now. It's past and gone." "Oh, I couldn't live if I didn't. I don't think it is bitter now. These dear boys, they're not quite the same to me as the ones that were taken." "I thought you'd forgotten them." "I thought you had, Etta, and I couldn't help feeling it." "Herbert asked me never to speak about them to you."