But the tender and pitying side of her nature asserted itself, when she looked at the little fellow's white cheeks; not pale only, but dead-white, as with abject terror; and at the small shaking hands. "Come!" she said gently. "I'll take care of you. I won't let you slip. Stand up, and hold me tight. I'll take you across." She put a protecting arm round him, and guided his steps with a mother-like care, droll yet pretty in one so young. Jean had all the instincts of womanhood, though her recollections of a mother's love were dim. "There!" she said, as they reached the bank on the Rectory side. His face having been turned that way, Jean had taken it for granted that he wished to cross. "Now you are all right. You see how easy the stones are, so you won't be frightened again. Boys never ought to be afraid. Oswald isn't!" proudly, with a gleam in her greenish-brown eyes. "But you are such a mite! Where do you want to go?" "I want to go home," came plaintively in answer. Jean stood looking at him. He was a lovely little boy, but Jean had hardly reached an age appreciative of mere beauty. The sweet wistful eyes and delicate outlines were lost upon her. Jean's notion of a boy was of something reckless, dashing, untidy, headlong, noisy—of Oswald, in fact. This dainty small creature, with lace collar and spotless hands, by no means answered to the description. "Where is your home?" "Over there." "Where? What—'The Brow!' Why, what's your name?" "I'm Cyril John Devereux." A pause of astonishment. "And I'm Jean Trevelyan. But you're not—Cyril!" said Jean. "Aunt Marie said Cyril was ten years old." "I'm ten next August." "Ten! Stand up—straight." Cyril obeyed. Jean placed herself beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "I'm ever so much the tallest—and only nine last month." "Ah, but I shall grow," said Cyril confidently. "I'm going to be a man." "A man!" Jean looked him all over again, disdainful and compassionate. "What a pity you weren't made a girl!" "Father liked me best to be a boy," asserted Cyril. Jean suddenly remembered his father's death, and as suddenly she recalled the game of bowls. "Oh, I can't wait. I'm forgetting," she cried. "I must find Oswald." "Aunt Sybella said there was a boy called Oswald." "He's my brother!" proudly again. "Is he nice? Is he like you?" The violet eyes were fixed upon Jean with unspeakable admiration. "Nice! There never was such a boy as Oswald in all the world—never!" declared the little sister, her soul shining in her face. "No, he isn't like me. Oh, of course not! I'm ugly; and he is—Oh, you don't know Oswald yet! Wait till you do! He is—he is—just Oswald!" cried Jean rapturously, as if the name implied everything. "You're not ugly." "Yes, I am. Everybody says so. It doesn't matter. I've got Oswald." "Shall I like him?" "I shouldn't like you, if you didn't." Cyril looked thoughtful. Jean was longing to be off; but a sense of this little fellow's helplessness restrained her.