"Come," she said huskily, "we've got to make haste." "Was that boy cross with you?" demanded Cyril, as they set off. He clenched his tiny hand, and the blue eyes sparkled. "If anybody is cross with you, I'd like—I'd like to fight him." "No, you wouldn't! He is my brother. You are never to fight Oswald." "But I will, if he is cross to you." "It doesn't matter. He is only sorry I can't play. And so am I," added Jean, her chest heaving. "You must learn to get over those stones, you know. Boys never ought to be cowards." Cyril looked up gravely. "No, I won't," he said. "Father wouldn't like me to be a coward. I'll try to get over the stones all alone—some day." CHAPTER III. "DEAR AUNT." "Though man a thinking being is defined, Few use the grand prerogative of mind; How few think justly of the thinking few! How many never think, who think they do! Opinion, therefore—such our mental dearth— Depends on mere locality or birth." JANE TAYLOR. "EVELYN!" "Yes, aunt." "Where are you going?" "Into the garden." "My dear, you have thin shoes on." "Thick enough for August." "No, indeed. The dew was quite heavy last night. And I heard you cough yesterday." "Cough! I don't know what it is to take cold." Sybella's brow puckered. "Really, Evelyn, that is childish. Everybody takes cold sometimes." "I don't." "My dear, I cannot let you risk it. I really cannot. And, besides—" "Yes?" Evelyn stood, careless and graceful, outside the French window of the morning-room. She was a marvellously fair young creature; but the fringed black-blue eyes, like those of her little brother in shape and colour, wore a combative expression, as they met the anxious orbs of Sybella. "My dear, I wished—I thought I had made you understand—I should like you to give up an hour or two every morning—two hours it ought to be—to some useful occupation. Dear aunt always insisted on that with me, when I was long past your age." Miss Devereux sighed, and her voice grew plaintive. She, like Evelyn, wore heavy mourning, not alone for Sir Theodore, but also for old Mrs. Willoughby, who had passed away within a week of General Villiers' arrival, having never so much as heard of her nephew's death. Two months had elapsed since then. Sybella stood alone in the world, so far as her accustomed props were concerned, but with a fresh and absorbing interest in life. She had the children to care for. Sir Theodore had appointed her sole guardian of Evelyn and Cyril Devereux. It was an interest which brought weighty responsibilities in its train.