"Where do you mean to go?" she asked. "I don't know the way back." "Why, over the stones, of course—as you came." "Oh, I can't. I couldn't go across again—it frightened me." "But you're a boy. You ought not to be frightened. Oswald never is." Cyril glanced at the river and shivered, tears filling his eyes. "I can't," he said. A whoop rang out, and Jean's contemplative face changed to one of delight. "Oswald!" passed her lips, as a boy came rushing along the grass-grown path beside the river. A genuine boy this time—strong and vigorous, hot and muddy, round-faced and rosy, nearly twice the size of the little baronet, though only two years or so his senior. His complexion was sunburnt, his hands were soiled, the cap was slipping off his tumbled hair, the trousers were torn at his knees. "Hallo, Jean! Did you think I was lost? I say—what shrimp have you fished up there?" Jean sprang to meet her brother. "It's Cyril Devereux," she whispered energetically. "He's come home, and his father is dead, and he's afraid of the stepping-stones." "Whew!" Oswald contented himself with this brief commentary. "Well, come along; just time for a game of bowls." Jean was nearly torn in half, between the pulling of her own desires on the one hand, and the pulling of duty on the other hand. Her whole soul was bent upon the promised game with the brother whom her little heart worshipped. But this poor small baronet, with his dread of the river, how could he ever find his way home? It was one of those everyday occasions, when the child's decision one way or the other, does much towards the formation of that child's character. Either the bent towards right, the devotion to duty—the Pflichttreue—is strengthened, and the passion of self-pleasing is weakened; or vice versa. Jean was sorely tempted; but her home training from babyhood had aimed to teach her one thing—always to do the Right, irrespective of cost to self. Such early training is an untold power for after-good. Every time the will conquers, it gains strength; every time it is overcome, it loses strength. Mere habit, one way or the other, has the compelling force of iron bands in later life. These bands were already in process of formation; and Jean did not hesitate long. "I can't," she said; "he doesn't know the way round by the bridge. I must show him." "Rubbish! A boy not able to find his way!" "He isn't like most boys. He is so—funny!" Jean said, lowering her voice. "So little!" "Little goose! Time he should learn to be like other boys." Jean was silent. "Well, you needn't ask me to come back for a game with you another day! That's all." Jean's heart was ready to break under his displeasure, yet she stood to her duty. "I'll make haste," she tried to say. "Make haste to lessons, you mean! Stuff! Well—will you come?" "I can't," she murmured. "Then you're an ass! I shan't play with you again." Oswald dashed off in a huff, and Jean's eyes were full. She turned to the other child: