"You are my
sister."
"No, I'm not," was the reply; and, as she spoke, Harriet glanced
sideways at him in a particularly unpleasant manner. She herself
meant it to be pleasant.
"Oh yes, you are, Harriet," he insisted good-humouredly. "We've been
brother and sister ever since we can remember, haven't we?"
"But we aren't really, for all that," said the girl, looking away.
"Well, now you've got somebody else to take you up, I know very well
I shall see less of you. You'll be making excuses to get out of the
rides when the summer comes again."
"Pray don't say or think anything of the kind, Harriet," urged
Julian with feeling. "I should not think of letting anything put a
stop to our picnics. It will soon be getting warm enough to think of
the river, won't it? And then, if you would like it, there is no
reason why my friend shouldn't come with us, sometimes."
"Oh, nonsense! Why, you'd be ashamed to let him know me."
"Ashamed! How can you possibly think so? But you don't mean it; you
are joking."
"I'm sure I'm not. I should make mistakes in talking, and all sorts
of things. You don't think much of me, as it is, and that would make
you like me worse still."
She tossed her head nervously, and swung her arms with the awkward
restlessness which always denoted some strong feeling in her.
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