It was Lilian who constantly procured Helen pleasures,
who shielded her little faults, who sympathized with her joys and her
griefs and her sentimentalities, making merry with her to-day, crying
with her to-morrow, and who shone upon her with unvarying sunshine; it
was Lilian who did all this in another way for John; it was Lilian who
made every one's happiness that came near her; and Helen's affection
for her became something romantic and ideal. As for her brother John,
Helen had always held him in a place apart: she loved him far better
than she loved her strict, stern father; he was a portion of herself;
her universe revolved around him; she had never formed a fancy of what
life and the world would be without him; and much as she worshiped
Lilian, she had more than once doubted if she were altogether worthy
of John--not because she was Lilian, but because he was John. She used
to watch Lilian sometimes when John's friends came in in the
evening--used to watch her and admire her flushing face, her perfect
toilette, her gracious manner; but used to wonder if all betrothed
women treated their lovers' friends so exactly as they did their
lovers, with that same unchanging courtesy and gentle sweetness. Once
she saw the manner vary: it was while she herself was singing to them
all, facing down the room, and John held his pawn suspended in the
crisis of a game of chess, while Mr.
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