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Christine dried her tears, and looked earnestly and inquiringly in her sister’s face, as if she suspected there was some hidden sorrow with which she was unacquainted. Ann answered her look by saying,

“You wonder what I was weeping for, when you awoke, Christine. I had met with no sorrow; but when I looked at you, the course of conduct I had pursued towards you came up before me vividly: I felt how unsisterly I had been–“

“Say nothing about it,” interrupted Christine, with delicate generosity, “let the past be forgotten, the future shall be all brightness, dearest Ann. We will pour out our hearts to each other, and each will strengthen the other in better purposes. I am no longer alone, you love me and I am happy.”

That night, the dreams of the sisters were pure and peaceful. One happy week passed away with Christine; Ann was affectionate and gentle, and only went out when accompanied by her. They were inseparable; they read, wrote, studied, and sewed together. For the time, Ann seemed to have laid aside her usual character; she yielded to her purest feelings; no incident had yet occurred to mar her tranquillity. One evening, when she was reading aloud to Christine in their own apartment, a servant girl threw open the door and exclaimed,

“Miss Ann, there are two gentlemen waiting in the parlour to see you; Mr. Darcet and Mr. Burns!”

“Very well,” replied Ann, rising, and giving the book to Christine; but she took it away in the instant, and said,

“Come, Crissy, go down with me!”

“Oh, no matter,” replied her sister, “I am not acquainted with them, and I would rather stay up here, and read. Mother will be in the parlour.”

“Suit yourself,” returned Ann, half carelessly, as she smoothed her hair. “When you get tired of reading, come down.”

“I’ll see about it,” said Christine, as the door closed.

Ann looked beautiful indeed, as she entered the parlour, her features lit up with a smile of graceful welcome. After a little easy trifling, the conversation turned upon subjects which she knew Christine would be interested in. Under a kind impulse, she left the room, and hastened to her.

“Come down into the parlour, Christine,” she exclaimed, laying her hand affectionately upon her shoulder, as she approached. “Mr. Darcet is telling about his travels in Europe, and I am sure you will be interested. There (sic) isn o need of your being so unsociable. Come, dear!”

Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Ann without speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness, from this proof of thoughtful affection. When she was introduced to Ann’s friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face, breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within.

“I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert,” said Mr. Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a brief admiring gaze at Christine.

“Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse,” replied Christine quickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which was manifested by a deep blush. “I have yielded to sister Ann’s persuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shall make this a beginning of sociabilities.”

“I hope so,” returned Darcet; “do you think being much secluded, has a beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?”

“I do not,” was the young girl’s brief answer. The colour came to her cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant. “But sometimes–” the sentence was left unfinished. Darcet’s curiosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine’s lip, and forgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer, and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate. She felt his scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face. There was a silence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile,

“We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if it is agreeable to you.”