my mind."

"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said
you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!"

Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window,
leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow,
though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed
straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and
bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands
showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds.
No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters,
unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed
between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the
pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark
eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal.
Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge,
very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too,
in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta
was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss
Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It
was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed
her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of
pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything
save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened
at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was Miss
Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there
was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice
had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She
left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to