"Uncle put up the horse at an inn, and took me to see T—, that was father's college, you know, and he pointed out the rooms that were father's once, and I saw the chapel and the lime-walk, and he told me such a lot about father, how clever he was, and that he won scholarships, and in that way more than half paid for his own education. Oh, how I wish mother could have been with me to-day!" "You'll be able to tell her all about it some time," said Rose, as she noticed a shade of sadness cross her cousin's face. "Oh yes; but not for a long, long time. How did you and Bob spend the afternoon?" Mavis asked, glancing from the sister to the brother. "We went blackberry gathering," answered Rose. "It was slow work," observed Bob, joining in the conversation at last. "You had the best of it, Mavis," he added, grudgingly. "Indeed I think I did," Mavis agreed, with a smile. Then, becoming aware by the expression of Bob's face that he was displeased, she inquired, "Would you have liked to have gone to Oxford instead of me this afternoon?" "Rather!" he exclaimed. "Father took you for a drive last Saturday, too!" he reminded her, in a way which showed he resented the fact. "Bob!" exclaimed Rose, in an expostulating tone. "Well, it's not fair that father should make more of Mavis than of us," he grumbled, "I know mother thinks so too." "For shame!" cried Rose, her kind heart touched by the hurt expression on her cousin's face. "Don't take any notice of what he says, Mavis." "I didn't know he wanted to go this afternoon," murmured Mavis, looking distressed, "but I suppose one of you would have gone, if I had not been here. I—I am very sorry." "There is nothing to be sorry about," Rose replied. "There, I believe you've made her cry," she said, turning upon her brother with indignation, as Mavis slipped quietly out of the room. "I saw tears in her eyes. You are very selfish, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bob. If father makes much of Mavis, it's only because he wants her to be happy with us. It's so sad that her mother should have had to go away and leave her." "I didn't mean to make her cry," Bob answered. "I call her a great baby!" "She's quite a little girl, of course," said Rose, who, being two years her cousin's senior, felt almost grown up in comparison to her, "but I don't consider her at all babyish. See how little fuss she made when her mother left!" "I don't believe she cared—not much, heard mother say so to Jane; she said Mavis was singing a few hours after Aunt Margaret had gone, and people don't sing if they're sad." Rose did not argue the point. Instead, she went upstairs in search of Mavis, whom she found in her bedroom, sitting on a chair by the window in the dark. "What are you doing, Mavis?" she asked. "Nothing," Mavis answered, "only thinking, and—and wishing that mother had left me in London with Miss Tompkins. I never guessed Bob wanted to go this afternoon, I never thought that I was taking his place!"