eople in "the district," and the
Provident Society; and how that sober and laudable conversation could be
called love-making, it would be difficult for the most ardent imagination
to conceive. He was to dine with them that evening; so it was for but a
very brief time that they parted when the Perpetual Curate left the
ladies at the green door, and went away to his room, to attend to some
other duties, before he arrayed himself for the evening. As for the
sisters, they went in quite comfortably, and had their cup of tea before
they dressed for dinner. Lucy was manager indoors as well as out. She
was good for a great deal more than Miss Wodehouse in every practical
matter. It was she who was responsible for the dinner, and had all the
cares of the house upon her head. Notwithstanding, the elder sister took
up her prerogative as they sat together in two very cosy easy-chairs,
in a little room which communicated with both their bed-chambers
up-stairs--a very cosy little odd room, not a dressing-room nor a
boudoir, but something between the two, where the sisters had their
private talks upon occasion, and which was consecrated by many a
libation of fragrant tea.

"Lucy, my dear," said Miss Wodehouse, whose gentle forehead was
puckered with care, "I want to speak to you. I have not been able to
get you out of my mind since ever we met Mr Wentworth at the green
door."

"Was there any need for getting me out of your mind?" said smiling
Lucy. "I was a safe enough inmate, surely. I wonder how often I am out
of your mind, Mary dear, night or day."

"That is true enough," said Miss Wodehouse, "but you know that is not
what I meant either. Lucy, are you quite sure you're going on just as
you ought--"

Here she made a troubled pause, and looked in the laughing face
opposite, intent upon her with its startled eyes. "What have I done?"
cried the younger sister. Miss Wodehouse shook her head with a great
deal of seriousness.

"It always begins with laughing," said the experienced woman; "but if
it ends without tears it will be something new to me. It's about Mr
Wentworth, Lucy. You're always together, day after day; and, my dear,
such things can't go on without coming to something--what is to come
of it? I have looked at it from every point of view, and I am sure I
don't know."

Lucy flushed intensely red, of course, at the Curate's name; perhaps
she had not expected it just at that moment; but she kept her
composure like a sen