Cyril was wonderfully comforted. Tears lessened, and he could manage to look up into the other's face—a young face, frank and kindly; with a mouth of exquisite curves, sweet, strong, and smiling; with a broad forehead above the grey eyes, which were full, half of mockery, half of tenderness, a touch of sadness running through both. "Please put me down," entreated Cyril, direfully afraid of seeming girlish. The young man obeyed very gently, as if he were handling a piece of porcelain. There was something porcelain-like in the child's look. Cyril tottered, and caught at his new friend. "Dizzy still, poor little man? Sit on this bank." "I mustn't. Auntie says the grass is damp to-day. And I promised." "Whew! Quite right to do as you are told. Well; you won't find me damp. I'll be your cushion." He threw himself down, lifted Cyril on his knee, and encircled the child with kind arms. Cyril rested his curly head on the broad shoulder, with evident relief. "That's better, eh? Now tell me your name. Cyril! What—little Devereux? I know all about you. And is Jean a friend of yours?" "Jean? O yes! I do love her so." Pretty, but hardly boy-like, the young man thought. "She's a jolly little girl, isn't she?" "Do you know Jean?"—with great eagerness. "Rather! I should think so! Hasn't she ever talked to you about Cousin Jem? If not, I'll pay her out." The mocking grey eyes sparkled, then grew soft as they glanced down on Cyril's tiny white hand. Jem's oppositions of mood were almost as marked as those of Jean. "O yes; I know. Jean told me. She said Cousin Jem was a sort of a cousin. And she likes him—you, I mean—ever so much. Next after Oswald, you know. And I think I shall like you next after Jean. And Evie said you were coming to stay with General Villiers. But—" with an elderly air—"I didn't know it was you, of course, at first: because Evie called you a boy." Cyril was regarding, in his turn, the muscular brown hand beside his own, a hand of aristocratic outlines and powerful grasp, matching well the lithe muscular figure. "Evie calls everybody boys." "Does she? Who is Evie?" "Oh, she's my sister. She's so pretty. I love Evie; only not like Jean." A pause, as if for reflection. "I mean to marry Jean, some day." "Ah!" said Jem. "Have you told her so?" "O no!" Cyril's voice had a sound of indignant surprise. "I haven't told anybody." "Except me!" Jem Trevelyan was used to this. He had the indescribable power over all who came in contact with him, which causes unlimited confiding. Young as he was, other people were perpetually telling him things which they "had told nobody else." He never knew why: neither did they: but in a tête-à-tête with Jem, secrets were sure to ooze out; and Jem never abused anybody's trust. "You won't tell Jean!"