Dacre cast one rapid murderous look on his sister then he sullenly accommodated himself to his surroundings and sat on like a log. As for Gwen, her tears were so near the surface that she had to swallow them with a gulp, her eyes grew dull and lifeless, the brilliant colour had all faded, and her cheeks had a ghastly, streaky, livid look, from the scrubbing. “Would you like something to eat, my dears?” said Mrs. Waring eagerly. She would not sit down but hovered above her children, she could not fathom Gwen’s horrid look of temper, and by this time the streaky cheeks had quite a revolting look. Her mother started at sight of it, and whispered in quite an audible voice, “Her skin seems unclean and mottled. Dearest, I will speak to Mary, a Gregory’s powder I should recommend.” Gwen’s flush deepened the streaks to lines of blood, and she could hardly keep from shrieking out her wrath and indignation, but she controlled herself and said in a harsh level voice, “We would like nothing to eat, thank you, we’ve had our tea, we came to see you, you don’t want us. Dacre, I think we might go.” Then to the absolute staggering of the boy, she turned, caught his hand, and dragging him along by it went up and stood before her parents, her eyes gleaming strangely. “Good-night, mother, good-night, father—oh, good-night!” “Good-night, my dears,” said Mr. Waring blandly, and seeing that they still waited he stooped down stiffly and kissed the foreheads of both of them, then, with the air of a man who has done his duty, he remarked, “Dacre’s health seems to be more robust than his sister’s, I think you are wise in recommending something of an anti-febrile nature.” The children were half out of the room by this time, and Mrs. Waring’s eyes followed them with a puzzled stare. Something had evidently been forgotten. “Ah, of course,” she cried, her face lighting, and running forward she put a soft detaining hand on a shoulder of each of her children and laid a small kiss on the middle of Gwen’s cheek. Then she stooped to Dacre and did the same by him. She wondered a little as she went up to Mary’s room why Gwen shuddered when she touched her. “I wonder if she’s feverish,” she thought.—“Oh, what agonies of responsibility parents have to endure,” she sighed, with yearning self-pity, as soon as she reached the head of the stairs. When the children got to the nursery, Dacre faced his sister with glaring eyes. “Beast!” was his sole observation. “Let me alone, oh, let me alone!” she cried, “and, Dacre, open the windows, I feel smothered.” “You should live on the top of a windmill,” he grumbled, but he did as she bade him, and watched her with some puzzled concern. She soon recovered from her smothering and drew in her head and leant against the window in silence for a few minutes, then she said with calm decision,