with his breath.

Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This
young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against
the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of
craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.

Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.
"Mother, Mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much? I know why I
love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But
what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet--why, I cannot
tell--though I feel so much beneath him, I don't feel humble. I feel
proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince
Charming?"

The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her
cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to
her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother.
I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you
because you loved him so much. Don't look so sad. I am as happy to-day
as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!"

"My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,
what do you know of this young man? You don't even know his name. The
whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away
to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should
have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich
. . ."

"Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!"

Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical
gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player,
clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad
with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure,
and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He
was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the
close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes
on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the
dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the tableau was interesting.

"You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the
lad with a good-natured grumble.

"Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a
dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him.

James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "I want you to
come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don't suppose I shall ever see
this horrid London again. I am sure I don't want to."

"My son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up
a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She
felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would
have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.

"Why not, Mother? I mean it."

"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a
position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the
Colonies-- nothing that I would call society--so when you have made your
fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."

"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don't want to know anything about that.
I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I
hate it."

"Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really
going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going
to say good-bye to some of your friends-- to Tom Hardy, who gave you
that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it.
It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall
we go? Let us go to the park."

"I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the
park."

"Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.

He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don't be
too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her
singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.

He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the
still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked.

"Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For
some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this
rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when
their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The
silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.
She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as
they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be
contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must
remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a
solicitor's office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the
country often dine with the best families."

"I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are quite
right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don't


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