"But," I thought,
"they will seem sweet and beautiful to him, for his little sister's sake."
"That is my brother," she went on, pointing with her nosegay.
"The one with the light hair?" I asked.
"O, no;" she said, smiling and shaking her head in innocent reproof; "not
that homely one with red hair; that handsome one with brown, wavy hair. His
eyes look brown, too; but they are not, they are dark blue. There! he's got
his hand up to his head now. You see him, don't you?"
In an eager way she looked from him to me, as if some important fate
depended on my identifying her brother.
"I see him," I said. "He is a very good-looking brother."
"Yes, he is beautiful," she said, with artless delight, "and he's good, and
he studies so hard. He has taken care of me ever since mama died. Here is
his name on the program. He is not the valedictorian, but he has an honor
for all that."
I saw in the little creature's familiarity with these technical college
terms that she had closely identified herself with her brother's studies,
hopes, and successes.
"He thought at first," she continued, "that he would write on 'The Romance
of Monastic Life.
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