When I came up with her, I turned and looked into the bonnet. It was
Sylvia. As my eyes fell upon the face of that startled angel, my impulse
was to throw my arms around her, and rush away with her, gray bonnet,
shawl and all, to some distant clime where there were no Houses of
Martha, Mother Anastasias, or anything which could separate my dear love
and me; but I crushed down this mad fancy, smothered, as well as I
could, my wild emotions, and said, as calmly as possible,--
"Good morning, sister."
Over the quick flushes of her face there spread a smile of pleasure.
"I like that," she said; "I am glad to have you call me sister. I
thought you would be prejudiced against it, and would not do it."
"Prejudiced!" I said; "not a bit of it. I am delighted to do so."
"That is really good of you," she said; "and how have you been? You look
a little wan and tired. Have you been doing your own writing?"
"Oh, no," I said; "I have given up writing, at least for the present. I
wish I could make you understand how glad I am to call you sister, and
how it would joy my heart if you would call me brother."
"Oh, that would not do at all," she said, in a tone which indicated
surprise at my ignorance; "that would be quite a different thing.
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