“What an idea!” cried Ina, laughing.  “Of course I am very sad at leaving home and you all, you darling, but the getting married is not so much, after all.  You will find that I am right.”

“I shall never get married,” said Charlotte.

“Nonsense, honey!  ’Deed you will.”

“No, I shall not.  I shall stay with papa.”

“Yes, you will.  Say, honey, Robert”—­Ina said Robert quite easily and prettily now—­“Robert has a stunning cousin, young enough to be his son.  His name is Floyd—­Floyd Arms.  Isn’t that a dear name?  And his father has just died, and he has the next place to ours.”

“Don’t be foolish, dear.”

“Robert says he is a fine fellow.”

“I know all about him.  I have seen Floyd Arms,” said Charlotte, rather contemptuously.

“Oh, so you have!  He was home that last time you were in Acton, wasn’t he?  You spoke of him when you came home.”

“Yes, the last term I was at school,” said Charlotte.  “Let me pin your veil, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you think he was handsome?”

“No, I don’t, not so very,” said Charlotte.

“Oh, Charlotte, where did you ever see a handsomer man, unless it was papa or Robert?”

“I have seen much handsomer men,” declared Charlotte, firmly, as she carefully pinned her sister’s veil.

“Well, I would like to know where?  Not in this town?”

“Yes, in this town.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Anderson.”

“The grocer?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte, defiantly.  The veil was pinned, and Ina turned and looked at her, a rosy vision behind a film of gray lace.  “You look lovely,” said Charlotte, who had a soft pink in her cheeks.

“I think this hat is a beauty,” said Ina.  “Wasn’t it lucky that New Sanderson milliner was so very good, and did not object to giving credit?  Why, Mr. Anderson is the grocer!  That is the man you mean, isn’t it, honey?”

“Yes,” replied Charlotte, still with defiance.

“Oh, well, that doesn’t count,” said Ina, turning for a last view of herself in the glass.  “This dress fits beautifully.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Charlotte, as they left the room.  She felt, even in the midst of parting, and without knowing why, a little indignation with her sister.

On the threshold, Ina paused suddenly and flung her arms around the other girl.  “Oh, honey,” she said, with a half-sob—­“oh, honey, how can we talk of who is handsome and who isn’t, whether he is the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick-maker, when, when—­” The two clung together for a minute, then Charlotte put her sister gently away.

“You will muss your veil, dearest,” said she, “and it is almost time to go, and Amy and papa will want the last of you.”