d
quick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as it
were, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through his
or her spectacles. While Molly had not got further than opening wide her
eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, Sylvia, practical in the way
that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the whole
case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the best
thing to be said or done. And Molly would wonderingly admire, and wish
she could manage to "think of things" the way Sylvia did.

They loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired,
and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are
tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. And
when aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round
to beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of
them to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in
Molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking
them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she
thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after
all, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to Paris, were to turn out not
delightful at all. And through Sylvia's honest little heart there darted
a quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to Molly. How was it
that she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and so
conscientiously made? How was it that she could not succeed in
remembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted to
be snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive for
peculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promise
she had made, now so many years ago, to the mother Molly could scarcely
even remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little,
flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had loved
so piteously.

"Eight years ago," said Sylvia to herself. "I was five and Molly only
three and a half then. Poor little Molly, how funny she was!"

And a hand crept in under Molly's sleeve, and a whisper reached her ear.

"I don't mean to be cross or to tease you, Molly."

And Molly in a moment was her own queer, happy, muddle-headed little self
again.

"Dear Sylvia," she whispered in return, "of course you don't. You never
do, and if the top of the bed _did_ come down, I'm sure I'