“I don’t believe he does,” Mrs. Worthington replied.  “His uncle, you know, was very unfortunate in his marriage, and had a way of judging all our sex by his wife.  Living with him as long as Hugh did, it’s natural he should imbibe a few of his ideas.”

“A few,” ’Lina repeated, “better say all, for John Stanley and Hugh Worthington are as near alike as an old and young man well could be.  What an old codger he was though, and how like a savage he lived here.  I never shall forget how the house looked the day we came, or how satisfied Hugh seemed when he met us at the gate, and said, ’everything was in spendid order,’” and closing her book, the young lady laughed merrily as she recalled the time when she first crossed her brother’s threshold, stepping, as she affirmed, over half a dozen dogs, and as many squirming kittens, catching her foot in some fishing tackle, finding tobacco in the china closet, and segars in the knife box, where they had been put to get them out of the way.

“But Hugh really did his best for us,” mildly interposed the mother.  “Don’t you remember what the servants said about his cleaning one floor himself because he knew they were tired!”

“Did it more to save the lazy negroes’ steps than from any regard for our comfort,” retorted ’Lina.  “At all events he’s been mighty careful since how he gratified my wishes.  Sometimes I believe he perfectly hates me, and wishes I’d never been born,” and tears, which arose from anger, rather than any wounded sisterly feeling, glittered in ’Lina’s black eyes.

“Hugh does not hate any one,” said Mrs. Worthington, “much less his sister, though you must admit that you try him terribly.”

“How, I’d like to know?” ’Lina asked, and her mother replied: 

“He thinks you proud, and vain, and artificial, and you know he abhors deceit above all else.  Why, he’d cut off his right hand sooner than tell a lie.”

“Pshaw!” was ’Lina’s contemptuous response, then after a moment she continued:  “I wonder how we came to be so different.  He must be like his father, and I like mine—­that is, supposing I know who he is.  Wouldn’t it be funny if, just to be hateful, he had sent you back the wrong child?”

“What made you think of that?” Mrs. Worthington asked, quickly, and ’Lina replied: 

“Oh, nothing, only the last time Hugh had one of his tantrums, and got so outrageously angry at me, because I made Mr. Bostwick think my hair was naturally curly, he said he’d give all he owned if it were so, but I reckon he’ll never have his wish.  There’s too much of old Sam about me to admit of a doubt,” and half spitefully, half playfully she touched the spot in the center of her forehead known as her birthmark.