“Because, Tom,” said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, “as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can’t reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don’t know what other girls know. I can’t play to you, or sing to you. I can’t talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired.”

“Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a mule too, which you’re not. If father was determined to make me either a prig or a mule, and I am not a prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a mule. And so I am,” said Tom, desperately.

“It’s a great pity,” said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: “it’s a great pity, Tom. It’s very unfortunate for both of us.”