either
speculative nor philosophical, but historical. All that concerns its
writer is that no sooner did the costume of the miller's daughters
suggest that they would be eligible for the altar, than they grew so
dear, so dear, that everything masculine and unattached was ambitious to
be the jewel that trembled at their ear, or the girdle about their
dainty, dainty waist.

The worst of it for these girls was that their likeness to one another
outwent that of ordinary twinship. It resembled that of the stage where
the same actor personates both Dromios; and their life was one perpetual
Comedy of Errors. Current jest said that they themselves did not know
which was which. But they did know, perfectly well, and had no
misgivings whatever about becoming permanently confused; even when,
having been dressed in different colours to facilitate distinction, they
changed dresses and produced a climax of complication. Even this was not
so bad as when Phoebe had a tiff with Maisie--a rare thing between
twins--and Maisie avenged herself by pretending to be Phoebe, affecting
that all the latter's protests of identity were malicious
misrepresentation. Who could decide when they themselves were not of a
tale? What settled the matter in the end was that Phoebe cried bitterly
at being misrepresented, while Maisie was so ill-advised as not to do
the same, and even made some parade of triumph. "Yow are Maisie. I heerd
yow a-crowun'," said an old stone-dresser, who, with other mill-hands,
was referred to for an opinion.

This was when they were quite young, before slight variations of
experience had altered appearance and character to the point of making
them distinguishable when seen side by side. Not, however, to the point
of rendering impossible a trick each had played more than once on too
importunate male acquaintances. What could be more disconcerting to the
protestations of a rustic admirer than "Happen you fancy you are
speaking to my sister Phoebe, sir?" from Maisie, or _vice versa_? It was
absolutely impossible to nail either of these girls to her own identity,
in the face of her denial of it in her sister's absence. Perhaps the
only real confidence on the point that ever existed was their mother's,
who knew the two babies apart--so she said--because one smelt of roses,
the other of marjoram.

It may easily have been that the power of duping youth and shrewdness,
as to which sister she really was, weighed too heavily with each o