Leslie Galt, the grave young lover of Dorothy, had from the first found a friend in Sybil, and she had been a willing screen for hardly secured hand-pressures at sundry partings; had made swift and fairly reasonable excuses for brief, but to Mrs. Lawton unaccountable, absences from porch or parlor; had given many a vital hint, that he had followed to his profit, and, in consequence, he had fallen into the habit of depending upon her sisterly advice in his love-affairs. "When in doubt, consult your Sybil!" was his way of describing the situation; and on that morning, being in doubt, he had appeared at Mrs. Van Camp's and had sought an interview before work began. After greetings and a few commonplaces had been exchanged, a slight pause was broken by Sybil saying, briskly: "Brother-to-be! you are evidently on the anxious seat about something, so rise up like a little man and tell me all about what brought you there! Do you know [she cocked her head to one side in a ludicrous imitation of old Poll], you look like a young person who, having gone and done something he is half sorry for, is now in search of a friend who will brace him up and tell him how wondrous wise he has been?" Galt laughed rather nervously, rather flatly, and a dismal "Ha! ha!" came in quick response from beneath the sofa. "There!" the speaker went on; "did you hear that? There's the same clear, mirthful ring in that laugh that yours had just now--so hearty!" He threatened the girl with the walking-stick he was rolling restlessly across his knee. "Upon my word," he said, "you are wonderfully well named. I believe you are a true descendant of the mighty Cumæan Sybil of old, whose peculiar business methods worried Tarquin of Rome--just as you will in all probability worry Mr. Thrall! Sybil, do you see what that wretched bird is about? He is cutting the buckle off your slipper." "Go away!" exclaimed she, pushing the ancient torment from her. "Scratch poor Poll!" hoarsely suggested the bird, cocking his head to one side in just the manner she had been imitating a moment before. "I won't!" she refused. "I scratched your treacherous old head for half an hour, and had to trim my nails for my trouble! Go away, Poll! Oh, Leslie! take him off, he's getting cross, and he'll bite my skirt full of holes if you don't!" And, after some little manoeuvring, the green tyrant was induced to clamber laboriously and profanely on to the stick, and was thus carried to Mrs. Van Camp, who cried: "Come to his mamma, then, and stop his naughty damning! and let dear mamma scratch Poll's pretty head!" adding aside to Galt: "It's so odd, he always speaks so much more distinctly when he swears. Just hear how plainly he is damning me now, yet words that I have been trying with all possible care to teach him he gives in such guttural tones that only a loving ear can comprehend them."