He had never yet made a second trial of the stepping-stones. He would do it now. Jean had urged him to conquer. He would not be a coward. There was natural force of will in the boy, though his fond parents had done their best in the past to weaken it; though his doting aunt was now doing her best to carry on the process. "You don't like so-and-so! Then don't do it, darling!"—had been the manner of his training hitherto. Such treatment is an absolute cruelty to a child, unfitting him for the exigencies of future life. To teach a child to master his own will, to control his own inclinations, is a grand beginning for life. To wrap the will in cotton-wool, and slay its vitality through disuse, means often a terrible after-slavery to the inclinations. "If I like!" becomes the rule of action in place of "If I ought!" Cyril had enough of latent vigour to prevent his succumbing utterly to even Sybella's training. As yet, however, he was very young for his age; small, timid, almost babyish; and his affectionateness made him the more malleable. The chief bracing influence in his little life was Jean Trevelyan. Oswald frightened him; and he shrank from Evelyn's high spirit; but he was ready to do or bear anything for Jean. So he made the effort bravely, though his heart fluttered, and dire sickness crept over him, as the waters ran past. He knew no more than did Jean of the physical weakness which caused these sensations. It was "cowardice" in his eyes as in Jean's; and it had to be conquered, because she said so. From stone to stone, he struggled on—whitening, shivering, hardly able to hold himself upright, till the middle of the stream was reached. Then he could do no more. Water and banks swept round with dizzy whirl, and as he crouched down in a forlorn little heap, he seemed to be sinking through unfathomable depths. He would not cry this time, for Jean despised boyish tears, but further advance was not possible. "Hallo! What's wrong?" It was a man's voice, full and musical; a voice unknown to Cyril. A few strides brought the owner of the voice near, and Cyril was lifted in a pair of strong arms, to be carried the rest of the way. "What's the matter, you poor little chap?" Cyril burst into tears. "Oh, I did want to get over," he sobbed, "and I couldn't; and Jean—Jean—" "What about Jean?" "Jean says—says—it's so cowardly—and she won't—won't love me!" "What's cowardly?" "I can't get across the stones." "Turns you giddy, eh?" "Yes," sobbed Cyril, from the depths of his heart. "Never mind. I wouldn't cry. When I was a little fellow like you, I was just the same—every inch as bad; and you see I don't mine the stones now."