And now the even course of Henrietta’s life was interrupted. Evelyn returned home. She and her friend were both grown up into young ladies. Many letters had passed between the sisters, but it was so long since they had seen one another that each felt a little shy at the meeting.

Evelyn was very lovely, made to please and be pleased, a regular mid-Victorian heroine, universally courted. Though always courted she was never spoilt, and was a most affectionate sister and daughter. But the old particular bond which had attached her and Henrietta no longer existed. She was equally affectionate to Minna and Louie.

Still, her coming made a great difference to Henrietta. There was a person of her own generation and way of thinking to converse with; they could have jokes together, and Evelyn was still full of schoolgirl enthusiasm. She had numberless schemes of occupation, duets, French readings, and splashwork. And when she went away on visits, there were her letters, much more intimate than those of a year or two earlier, full of allusions to their new occupations, and teasing of a kind, complimentary sort, which was new and very delightful to Henrietta.

They were arranging flowers in the school-room one afternoon, roses which had been brought to Evelyn by an admirer. They dropped some on the floor, both stooped to pick them up, and they knocked their heads together. Evelyn got up laughing, but felt her hand suddenly snatched, and kissed with a long, eager kiss. She turned round, startled. “What is it?” she said.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Henrietta, half hysterically. “If you knew what it is to me to have you back. I can’t tell you.”

“Is it, dear?” said Evelyn. “I’m so glad.” And she smoothed Henrietta’s forehead with a pretty gesture full of sweetness, but with a touch of condescension in it. She had listened already to so many passionate declarations about herself (one that very afternoon) that she was not so much impressed by Henrietta’s as most younger sisters would have been. Still she could not help contrasting herself in her triumphant youth with Henrietta, disregarded by everyone and snubbed. Mr. and Mrs. Symons never snubbed Evelyn, and she thought for a moment, “Oh, I’m thankful I’m not her”; but she put the thought away as unkind, and supposed vaguely that Henrietta was so good she did not mind.

Now that Evelyn was come back, Mrs. Symons roused herself from her invalidism to provide amusements for her. So little was possible at home that almost at once a round of gay visits was arranged. Minna was less engrossed now that the babies were older, and took her out to parties; and Louie had all the officers of her husband’s regiment at command. These same attractions had been offered to Henrietta. Louie had been most sincerely anxious to atone for the past, and had invited her again and again, but Henrietta had always refused; for though the original wound was healed, she still cherished resentment against Louie.

Evelyn’s was a career of triumph. Her letters, and Louie’s and Minna’s were full of officers and parties. This roused Henrietta’s old discontent. Why was Evelyn to have everything and she nothing? She promptly answered herself, “Because Evelyn is so sweet and beautiful, she deserves everything she can get.” But the question refused to be snubbed, and asked itself again. She hated herself for envying, and continued to envy.

Evelyn came home from her visits very much excited and interested about herself, but still not unmindful of Henrietta.

“Let me come in to your room, Etty, and tell you everything. I had a perfect time with Louie; she was a dear. She was always saying, ’Now, who shall we have to dinner? You must settle;’ so I just gave the word, and whoever I wanted was produced. Louie wishes you would go too. Do go, you would have such fun. She gave me a note for you.”

“My dear Etta,” the note ran,

“The 9th is having a dance on the 28th. I wish you would come and stay with us for it. Come, and bring Evelyn. I particularly want to have her for it. There is a special reason. Everyone is enchanted with the dear little thing. I shall be disappointed if you don’t come too. It all happened such years ago, surely we may forget it; and Edward is always asking me why I do not have you, and it seems so absurd, when I have no proper reason to give. I shall really think it too bad of you, if you don’t come.

Your affec.,
L. N. Carrington.”

Henrietta, thinking over the matter, found there was no reason why she should not go. At twenty-seven she felt herself rather older than this generation at forty-eight, and thought it ridiculous that she should be going to a dance. But once she was there, Louie made her feel so much at home, she found her remarks were so warmly welcomed, and her few hesitating sallies so much enjoyed, that she began to think that after all she was not completely on the shelf.

“Don’t go to-morrow, Etta stay here. There’s the Steeplechase on Friday; I want you to see that.”

“No, thank you, Louie,” said Henrietta; “I can’t leave mother longer. It’s been very delightful, more delightful than you can realize, perhaps you’re so much accustomed to it; but I must get back.”

“Now, that really is nonsense, Etta. Mother has Ellen, and she has father, and she is pretty well for her; you said so yourself.”

But Henrietta persisted in her refusal, for she had all the strong, though sometimes unthinking, sense of duty of her generation.

“Well, if you will go, you must. But now you have begun coming, come often. Write a line whenever you like and propose yourself.”

As they said good-night, Louie whispered, “Have you forgiven me, Etty?”

“Yes,” said Henrietta, “that’s all past and gone.”

“For a matter of fact,” said Louie, “he is not very happy with her; they don’t get on. The Moffats know him, and Mrs. Moffatt told me.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Henrietta, but she was not displeased.

Evelyn stayed behind, and Louie talked Henrietta over with her. “Poor,” ever since her marriage Henrietta had been “poor” to Louie, “Poor Etta really isn’t bad-looking, and when she gets animated she isn’t unattractive. If I could have her here often, I believe I could do something for her.”

When Evelyn came home a week or so later, she had an announcement to make. She had become engaged to an officer, a friend of the Carringtons, who had been staying in the house. He was delightful, the engagement was everything that was to be desired, and Evelyn was radiant.

Henrietta knew that such an announcement was bound to come sooner or later, but she had so longed for a few years’ happy intercourse together. She tried to think only of Evelyn, but she could not keep back all that was in her mind.

“Think of me left all alone. It was so dreary, and when you came you made everything different. Now it will go back to what it was before.”

“No, no, Etty darling; you will come and stay with us for months and months.”

“No, I shan’t. When you have got him you won’t want me.”

“Yes, I shall. I shall want you all the more. I love you more than I’ve ever done in my life, my darling sister. We’ve always been special, we two, haven’t we, ever since I can remember?”

Henrietta was a little comforted, and did not realize that though Evelyn’s tenderness was absolutely sincere, it came from the strange expansion of the heart which accompanies true love, and was not habitual.

The marriage took place almost at once, for the Captain’s regiment was ordered on foreign service, and Evelyn went away to regions where it was not possible for Henrietta to visit her.

But if she had lived in England, Henrietta would not have felt herself at liberty to go away for long. After she got home, she felt glad she had not extended her visit to the Carringtons, for Mrs. Symons was not so well, and she died shortly afterwards, and Henrietta reigned in her stead.