Oh, the delight of having a sister! Reine had had a sister, a baby
sister lost in infancy, and had often taken a sad pleasure in fancying
what that sister might have been like if she had lived. She had been six
years younger than Reine. Hetty was fifteen, about the age that the
little sister might now have been. Reine sat up in her bed and counted
the years between fifteen and twenty-one twice over on her fingers to
make perfectly sure. Hetty was the very age of the little sister. And so
like her mother! If the baby sister of whom she had been bereft could be
still alive, then Reine would have declared she must be Hetty.
She was now in a fever of excitement. Her curly brown hair had risen in
a mop of rings and ringlets around her head with tossing on her pillow,
her eyes were round and bright, and a burning spot was on each of her
cheeks. At last she sprang out of bed and in a minute was at Nell's
bed-room door.
Nell was awakened out of a sound sleep by the opening of her door.
"Don't be frightened, Nell; I'm not a burglar--only Reine."
"What's the matter?" said Nell, rubbing her eyes.
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