ne
this I have promised to sit with mother. She has been alone all day.
You could easily send an excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are
busy."

"I don't feel as though an excuse will help us here," returned
Phillis, slowly. "When an unpleasant thing has to be done, it is as
well to get it over: thinking about it only hinders one's sleep."

"But you will surely not go alone!" demanded Nan, in astonishment.
"You are so tired, Phil: you have been working hard all day. Give it
up, dear, and sit and rest in the garden a little."

"Oh, no," returned Phillis, disconsolately. "I value my night's rest
too much to imperil it so lightly: besides, I owe it to myself for a
penance for being such a coward this afternoon." And then, without
waiting for any further dissuasion, she carried off the letter and
wrote a very civil but vague reply, promising to walk up in the
evening and inquire after the invalid; and then she dismissed the
messenger, and went up to her room with a heavy heart.

Dulce came to help her, like a dutiful sister, and chattered on
without intermission.

"I suppose you will put on your best dress?" she asked, as she dived
down into the recesses of a big box.

Phillis, who was sitting wearily on the edge of her bed, roused up at
this:

"My best blue silk and cashmere, that we wore last at Fitzroy Lodge?
Dulce, how can you be so absurd! Anything will do,--the gray stuff, or
the old foulard. No, stop; I forgot: the gray dress is better made and
newer in cut. We must think of that. Oh, what a worry it is going out
when one is tired to death!" she continued, with unusual irritation.

Dulce respected her sister's mood, and held her peace, though she knew
the gray dress was the least becoming to Phillis, who was pale, and
wanted a little color to give her brightness.

"There, now, you look quite nice," she said, in a patronizing voice,
as Phillis put on her hat and took her gloves. Phillis nodded her
thanks rather sadly, and then bethought herself and came back and
kissed her.

"Thank you, dear Dulce; I am not nearly so tired now; but it is
getting late, and I must run off." And so she did until she had turned
the corner, and then, in spite of herself, her steps became slower and
more lagging.

CHAPTER XX.

"YOU ARE ROMANTIC."

Human nature is prone to argument; a person will often in the course
of a few moments bring himself or herself to the bar of conscience,
and accuse, excuse, and sum up