the Rector as peculiarly adapted to a woman of Cynthia's disposition. It was a patent truth that Edward was only too anxious to prove his adaptability: Cynthia alone was inscrutable, gloomy, and reserved in the matter.
"I detest sound common sense," said that young lady, in reply to her father's remark, "particularly in Edward. Beef and common sense and Edward are to me synonymous terms. What a capital husband he would make Agatha!"
"My dear child, that is a little unkind," said the Rector, with a curious twitch of his upper lip. "Agatha is a dear, good girl—far too good for any ordinary man. If you really think that Edward is so utterly uninteresting, why should you be willing to couple his name with your sister's?"
Cynthia's eyes began to dance. "Because," she said, "he is so tremendously appreciative, and Agatha likes to be appreciated. If I married, I should want to do some of the appreciating myself; it would be just possible for Agatha to forego that luxury."
At that moment a footstep was heard outside, the door opened, and Agatha herself walked into the room. She was very tall and slim—decidedly elegant. Next to her elegance one would notice her placidity. Then in their order one would naturally admire her blue eyes, her pink and white skin, and her beautiful smooth braids of yellow hair. She started a little—ever so little, of course —as her eyes fell on Cynthia's hat, but her smile, which was sweet, patient, and habitual, never wavered.
"I am sorry to interrupt your work, papa," she began. The Rector looked confused, and dipped his