her years. She had seen him leave for college with a pang of desolation, and now with what impatience she watched with face pressed against the pane for his first return home!
When he finally came he caught her up, the frail little girl of nine, and set her once more on his shoulder to queen it through the house.
“Mother,” he said, “Mary is as beautiful as an angel.”
“Well, my son,” said the good mother; “she is as gentle and sweet-tempered as one.”
“Now, little sister, tell me about the books,” was his first question, when he had kissed her cheeks and stood her before him at the old secretary. “Have they let you have the books again?”
Vibrating with the bliss of having again with her this beloved brother, she leaned upon his breast and looked up into his face with eyes like dewy violets. She clasped and unclasped her hands around his neck and nestled to his heart. The excess of her emotional nature disquieted him vaguely. Here was no farm girl’s prosaic temperament.
“Now tell your brother,” said he, holding her gently, for he felt again what he had forgotten, how fragile and gentle she was, how like a flower that might be crushed. It was a moment of rare intimacy, such as seldom occurs between members of the same family, except with highly organized natures. It was moreover a moment which yielded important results in her after life.
Standing before him, she explained all her heart with shy candor; how it was that she loved him so
