Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is, well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. The hotel on the Peak had the aspect of a fairy castle. He sent me flowers. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. Too close, he reasoned, for safety.
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