The child’s eyes filled with tears. So sharp they were, and keen, that this liquid medium seemed inappropriate to their eager curiosity and brightness. She grew quite pale, her lips quivered a little. “Uncle John!” she said again, with an hysterical heave of her bosom, “I think it is mamma.” “Sophy!” He cried out with such a wildness of exclamation that she started with fright, and those hot tears dropped out of her eyes. Something in her throat choked her. She repeated, in a stifled, broken voice, “I am sure it is mamma.” “Sophy! you must have some reason for saying this. What is it? Don’t tell me half, but everything. What makes you think--?” “Oh, I don’t think at all,” cried the child. “Why should I think? I saw her. I would not tell the others or say anything, because it would harm us all, wouldn’t it, Uncle John? but I know it is mamma.” He seized her by the shoulder in hot anger and excitement. “You little--! Could you think of that when you saw your mother--if it is your mother? but that’s impossible. And you can’t be such a little--such a demon as you make yourself out.” “You never said that to any one else,” cried Sophy, bursting into tears; “it was Rex that told me. He said we should lose all our money if mamma came back. We can’t live without our money, can we, Uncle John? Other people may take care of us, and--all that. But if we had no money what would become of us? Rex told me. He said that was why mamma went away.” John Trevanion gazed at the little girl in her precocious wisdom with a wonder for which he could find no words. Rex, too, that fresh and manly boy, so admirable an example of English youth; to think of these two young creatures talking it over, coming to their decision! He forgot even the strange light, if it were a light, which she had thrown upon the events of the previous evening, in admiration and wonder at this, which was more wonderful. At length he said, with perhaps a tone of satire too fine for Sophy, “As you are the only person who possesses this information, Sophy, what do you propose to do?” “Do?” she said, looking at him with startled eyes; “I am not going to do anything, Uncle John. I thought I would tell you--” “And put the responsibility on my shoulders? Yes, I understand that. But you cannot forget what you have seen. If your mother, as you think, is in the house, what shall you do?” “Oh, Uncle John,” said Sophy, pale with alarm. “I have not really, really seen her, if that is what you mean. She only just passed where I was standing. No one could punish me just for having seen her pass.” “I think you are a great philosopher, my dear,” he said. At this, Sophy looked very keenly at him, and deriving no satisfaction from the expression of his face, again began to cry. “You are making fun of me, Uncle John,” she said. “You would not laugh like that if it had been Rosalind. You always laugh at us children whatever we may say.”