underneath
their pillows at night? Or have they ever lain sleepless for an hour
because of a loved one's absence, or because of a cold word from him?
Do they write verses, or exchange valentines, or even give each other
flowers?'

Miss Abingdon recalled in her own mind the days when she and her sister
used to walk together in the park, with mamma leaning upon papa's arm
and pacing sedately behind; and how, when they used to sit down on one
of the lawns, it had always been in a group of four. Ah! those were
the days when one went home and wept because the dear one--the handsome
hero who filled half a girl's thoughts and was the object of more than
half her worship--had not seen, one across the crowd; or he had seen,
perhaps, but girlish modest eyes were forbidden to give the signal of
approach. It was more maidenly then to be oblivious of a young man's
presence. 'Now,' said, Miss Abingdon, 'when they see a young man whom
they know--a pal I believe they call him--girls will wave their
parasols or even shout. I have known them rise from their own chairs
and go and speak to a man. The whole thing is extraordinary to me.'

It was a relief to Miss Abingdon's sombre reflections when her friend,
the vicar's wife, came in for a morning call. She thought that Mrs.
Wrottesley's brown merino dress and bonnet, and constraining mantle
which rendered all movements of the arms impossible, looked very
decorous and womanly compared with the soles of a pair of brown leather
shoes, and the foreshortened figure of five feet eight of slender young
womanhood stretched in strenuous devotion to her strange occupation on
the lawn.

When Mrs. Wrottesley seated herself opposite the window Miss Abingdon
resisted an impulse to pull down the blind.

'Yesterday,' said Miss Abingdon, glancing at her niece, 'she was trying
to copy a feat which she had seen at the hippodrome, and was riding one
pony and driving another tandem in front of her over some hurdles in
the field.'

Mrs. Wrottesley smiled with the rather provoking indulgence with which
our friends regard the follies of our relations.

'She is so young,' said Mrs. Wrottesley, 'and she is very beautiful.'

'No,' said Miss Abingdon, with inward pride at her own unwavering
impartiality, 'I honestly believe that if we were to consider Jane
without prejudice we should find that she is simply healthy.'

'It is a great charm,' said Mrs. Wrottesley.

'No, no,' corrected Miss Abingdon qu