David and Jonathan grew as one boy: the taste and temper of one was
repeated in the other, even as the voice and features. Sleeping or
waking, grieved or joyous, well or ill, they lived a single life,
and it seemed so natural for one to answer to the other's name,
that they probably would have themselves confused their own
identities, but for their mother's unerring knowledge. Perhaps
unconsciously guided by her, perhaps through the voluntary action
of their own natures, each quietly took the other's place when
called upon, even to the sharing of praise or blame at school, the
friendships and quarrels of the playground. They were healthy and
happy lads, and John Vincent was accustomed to say to his
neighbors, "They're no more trouble than one would be; and yet
they're four hands instead of two."
Phebe died when they were fourteen, saying to them, with almost her
latest breath, "Be one, always!" Before her husband could decide
whether to change her plan of domestic education, they were passing
out of boyhood, changing in voice, stature, and character with a
continued likeness which bewildered and almost terrified him.
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