"I hope you don't feel hurt with me; I've only been honest, and I
meant to be kind," said Frank Sunderline.

"No, indeed; I dare say you did," returned Marion. "After all,
everybody has got to judge for themselves. I was silly to think
anybody could help me."

"Perhaps you could help yourself better," said the young man, loth
to leave her in this mood, "if you thought how you would judge for
somebody you cared for. If your own little sister"--

Now the quiver came. Now all the hurt, and pique, and shame, and
jealous disappointment rushed together to mingle and disguise
themselves with a swell and pang that always rose in her at the name
of her little dead sister,--dead six years ago, when she was nine
and Marion twelve.

The tears sprang to the darkened eyes, and quenched down their
burning; the color swept into her face, like the color after a
blow; the lips gave way; and with words that came like a cry she
exclaimed passionately,--

"Don't speak of little Sue! I can't bear it! I never could! I don't
know what I say now. Good-night, good-by."

And she left him there with his box upon the wall; turned and
hurried along the path, and in through the little white gate.