the phrase as it sounded in her ears, "Oi'm
like that meself!" and came to an instant conclusion. "Irish! She's
Irish. I'm glad of that. I like Irish people." She smiled for pure
pleasure, and the visitor stretched out a hand impulsively, and grasped
the thin fingers lying on the counterpane.

"You poor creature, I'm grieved for you! Tell me, is your name
Beatrice? I'm dying to know, for we had a discussion about it at home,
and I said I was sure it was Beatrice. I always imagine a Beatrice dark
like you, with brown eyes and arched eyebrows."

"I don't! The only Beatrice I know is quite fair and fluffy. No, I am
not Beatrice!"

"But you are not Helen! I do hope you are not Helen. The boys guessed
that, and they would be so triumphant if they were right."

"No, I'm not Helen either. I'm Sylvia Trevor."

"'Deed, you are, then! It's an elegant name. I never knew anyone
living by it before, and it suits you, too. I like it immensely. Did
you,"--the grey eyes twinkled merrily--"did you find a nickname for me?"

Sylvia glanced at Whitey and smiled demurely.

"We called you Angelina. Oh, we didn't think that was really your name,
but we called you by it because you looked so happy and er--er
affectionate, and pleased with everything. And we called your husband
Edwin, to match. Those are the proper names for newly-married couples,
you know."

The girl stared back with wide grey eyes, her chin dropped, and she sat
suddenly bolt upright in her chair.

"My _what_?" she gasped. "My h--" She put her hands against her cheeks,
which had grown quite pink, and gurgled into the merriest, most
infectious laughter. "But I'm not married at all! It's my brother. He
is not Edwin, he is Jack, and I'm Bridgie--Bridget O'Shaughnessy, just a
bit of a girl like yourself, and not even engaged."

Sylvia sank back in the bed with a great sigh of thanksgiving.

"What a relief! I was so jealous of that husband, for I wanted you for
myself, and if you had been married you would have been too settled-down
and domestic to care for me. I do hope we shall be friends. I'm an
only child, and my father is abroad, and I pine to know someone of my
own age."

"I know; your aunt told me. We talked about you all the time, for I had
been so interested and sorry about your illness, that I had no end of
questions to ask. What a dear old lady she is! I envy you having her
to live with. I always think one misses so much if t