the smallest trouble what it is in—the other."
"In Katy? I should think so," cried Mrs. Ashe, emphatically; "the two are no more to be compared than—than—well, bread and syllabub! You can live on one, and you can't live on the other."
"Come, now, Miss Page is n't so bad as that. She is a nice girl enough, and a pretty girl too,—prettier than Katy; I'm not so far gone that I can't see that. But we won't talk about her, she's not in the present question at all; very likely she'd have had nothing to say to me in any case. I was only one out of a dozen, and she never gave me reason to suppose that she cared more for me than the rest. Let us talk about this friend of yours; have I any chance at all, do you think, Polly?"
"Ned, you are the dearest boy! I would rather have Katy for a sister than any one else I know. She's so nice all through,—so true and sweet and satisfactory."
"She is all that and more; she's a woman
