"Dearest!" cried Jane, and gliding to my side, fell on her
knees.
"Jane!"
"What is it? You are ill?"
I could hardly more than whisper. In a low tone I said:
"He is dead."
"Dearest!"
"Drowned!"
At first she thought I meant a member of my Familey. But
when she understood she looked serious.
"You are too intence, Bab," she said solemly. "You suffer
too much. You are wearing yourself out."
"There is no other way," I replied in broken tones.
Jane went to the Mirror and looked at herself. Then she
turned to me.
"Others don't do it."
"I must work out my own Salvation, Jane," I observed
firmly. But she had roused me from my apathy, and I went into
Sis's room, returning with a box of candy some one had sent her.
"I must feel, Jane, or I cannot write."
"Pooh! Loads of writers get fat on it. Why don't you try
Comedy? It pays well."
"Oh--_money_!" I said, in a disgusted tone.
"Your _forte_, of course, is Love," she said. "Probably
that's because you've had so much experience." Owing to certain
reasons it is generaly supposed that I have experienced the
gentle Passion.
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