tworth, she said nothing to her sisters on this
new subject. She saw them safely home to their own apartments, and
went out again without explaining her movements. When she was gone,
Miss Wentworth listened to Miss Dora's doubts and tears with her
usual patience, but did not go into the matter much. "It doesn't
matter whether it is your fault or not," said aunt Cecilia, with a
larger amount of words than usual, and a sharpness very uncommon with
her; "but I daresay Leonora will set it all right." After all, the
confidence which the elder sister had in Leonora was justified. She
did not entirely agree with her about the "great work," nor was
disposed to connect the non-licensing of the gin-palace in any way
with the faithfulness of God: but she comprehended in her gentle heart
that there were other matters of which Leonora was capable. As for
Miss Dora, she went to the summer-house at last, and, seating herself
at the window, cried under her breath till she had a very bad
headache, and was of no use for any purpose under heaven. She thought
nothing less than that Leonora had gone abroad to denounce poor Frank,
and tell everybody how wicked he was; and she was so sure her poor
dear boy did not mean anything! She sat with her head growing heavier
and heavier, watching for her sister's return, and calculating within
herself how many places Leonora must have called at, and how utterly
gone by this time must be the character of the Perpetual Curate. At
last, in utter despair, with her thin curls all limp about her poor
cheeks, Miss Dora had to go to bed and have the room darkened, and
swallow cups of green tea and other nauseous compounds, at the will
and pleasure of her maid, who was learned in headache. The poor lady
sobbed herself to sleep after a time, and saw, in a hideous dream, her
sister Leonora marching from house to house of poor Frank's friends,
and closing door after door with all sorts of clang and dash upon the
returning prodigal. "But oh, it was not my fault--oh, my dear, she
found it out herself. You do not think _I_ was to blame?" sobbed poor
aunt Dora in her troubled slumber; and her headache did not get any
better notwithstanding the green tea.

Miss Dora's visions were partly realised, for it was quite true that
her iron-grey sister was making a round of calls upon Frank's friends.
Miss Leonora Wentworth went out in great state that day. She had her
handsomest dress on, and the bonnet which her maid had ca