here is no use wasting words. Eh? What?"

"Let father have what is needed, Sophia. I will pay you back."

"Very well, Charlotte; but I think it is most unjust, most iniquitous,
as Julius says"--

"Now, then, don't quote Julius to me. What right had he to be discussing
my family matters, or Sandal matters either, I wonder? Eh? What?"

"He is in the family."

"Is he? Very well, then, I am still the head of the family. If he has
any advice to offer, he can come to me with it. Eh? What?"

"Father, I am as sick as can be to-night."

"Go thy ways then. Mother and I are both poorly too. Good-night, girls,
both." And he turned away with an air of hopeless depression, that was
far more pitiful than the loudest complaining.

The sisters went away together, silent, and feeling quite "out" with
each other. But Sophia really had a nervous attack, and was shivery and
sick with it. By the lighted candle in her hand, Charlotte saw that her
very lips were white, and that heavy tears were silently rolling down
her wan cheeks. They washed all of Charlotte's anger away; she forgot
her resolution not to enter her sister's room again, and at its door she
said, "Let me stay with you till you can sleep, Sophia; or I will go,
and ask Ann to make you a cup of strong coffee. You are suffering very
much."

"Yes, I am suffering; and father knows how I do suffer with these
headaches, and that any annoyance brings them on; and yet, if Harry
cries out at Edinburgh, every one in Seat-Sandal must be put out of
their own way to help him. And I do think it is a shame that our little
fortunes are to be crumbled as a kind of spice into his big fortune. If
Harry does not know the value of money I do."

"I will pay you back every pound. I really do not care a bit about
money. I have all the dress I want. You buy books and music, I do not.
I have no use for my money except to make happiness with it; and, after
all, that is the best interest I can possibly get."

"Very well. Then, you can pay Harry's debts if it gives you pleasure. I
suppose I am a little peculiar on this subject. Last Sunday, when the
rector was preaching about the prodigal son, I could not help thinking
that the sympathy for the bad young man was too much. I know, if I had
been the elder brother, I should have felt precisely as he did. I don't
think he ought to be blamed. And it would certainly have been more just
and proper for the father to have given the feast and the gifts to