Seated in this last position, she exactly faced the schoolroom, and the twins had a moment's horrified fear that she had caught a glimpse of their peeping faces, but her next movement put an end to suspicion, for she took up her book and settled down again to her reading exactly as if she had never been interrupted. And then an extraordinary thing happened! The mane of golden hair was tossed back, leaving the face fully exposed, yet though the twins flashed the light on both eyes and book, the Pet read on stolidly, turning over the pages with leisurely enjoyment, apparently no whit disturbed. "What's the matter with her all of a sudden? Is she blind?" Jill queried impatiently. Jack grunted, and flashed more vigorously than ever, but the Pet might have been a hundred miles away for all the effect produced. It was most mysterious and perplexing, not to say exasperating to the last degree. After ten minutes' fruitless effort, Jack went off in search of fresh victims, and Jill sorrowfully returned to her lessons. How interested they would have been if they could have overheard a conversation which was even then taking place across the road! "Dear child!" cried a lady lying on a sofa at the far end of a beautifully-furnished drawing-room. "Dear child, what are you doing? For the last five minutes I have been watching you pretending to read with your eyes shut. It's not a lesson book, and Miss Mason is not here, so what can you be thinking about, dear wee goose?" The fair head turned round, and the book dropped to the floor. "I'm thinking," said a very sweet, sad little voice, "I'm thinking that I wish I were a large family, mother. I'm so tired of being only one!" "Oh, Cynthia!" cried the lady--and there was a world of mother-yearning in her voice--"is it that old trouble again? Poor child, it is dull for you, but I do all I can for you, darling. I stayed at home especially to be near you, and I do my best to be a companion, and to sympathise in all your interests. Don't tell me that I have failed altogether!" Cynthia crossed the room, knelt down on the floor by her mother's couch and laid both hands on her knee. The two faces that confronted each other were as much alike as was possible, given a difference in age of twenty-five years. Cynthia was a beautiful girl, and her mother was a beautiful woman, and the beauty lay as much in expression as in feature. Miles Trevor had been entirely mistaken when he compared the girl to a doll, for the direct glance of the eye, the sweet, firm lips and well- formed chin, belonged to no puppet, but showed unusual strength of character.