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While little Agnes slept, Irene sat in the room by her side still and quiet. There were voices heard in the distance; the manly voice of Hughie, who was somewhat dictatorial, and was ordering people about, and telling this person or the other that they were doing things wrong, and was terrifying his sister by his manly ways. There was Rosamund's voice, who was quite delighted at the turn events had taken. There was Miss Frost's voice, anxious about Agnes, and quite sure that Irene must end by terrifying her. There was Rosamund again persuading and soothing, and doing all she could to allow the present order of things to take a natural course. But upstairs in the pretty little bedroom the child slept peacefully; and Irene looked at her and felt new sensations, new hopes, new desires struggling in her breast. She had loved Rosamund because she was so strong. She was beginning to love little Agnes because she was so weak. What a strange tangle the world was! What was happening to her? And why was that curious living thing within so satisfied, so happy, so sure of itself?
"I don't want to talk about what has evidently given you very great distress," said Rosamund after a time; "but I should like to tell you that I know."
Sunday was a long and dreary day, at least in Rosamund's eyes, and but for an incident which occurred immediately after morning service, she scarcely knew how she could have got through it.
Lucy put on a smile which meant wonderful things.