"Not a word. You needn't be afraid. I wouldn't advise you to tell Jean either. Many a lady is lost through the gentleman speaking too soon." Jem stated this as seriously as if he had been addressing a full-grown man; and indeed the little fellow's intense seriousness hardly admitted of a joke. "Wait a while." "How long?" "Oh, wait—let me see—how old are you?" "I'm just ten." "Well, you must wait ten or twelve years at the very least. Perhaps more. Never do to speak sooner." "Jacob waited fourteen years." "So he did." Jem mentally contrasted the patriarch with this dainty infant, and had difficulty in keeping his lips straight. "If you have to wait fourteen years, it's nothing. Just bring you to twenty-four." "And then I'll marry Jean." "Supposing Jean consents. There's that little point to be considered. I'll tell you one thing—Jean will never marry a man to whom she can't look up. Do you understand? You must grow into a real man before you speak—strong and brave and good—a man she can respect and lean upon, not a twopence-halfpenny creature in a coat." The words sank deep; deeper than Jem knew. "Yes, I will!" said Cyril. "And don't mind waiting. Don't be easily disheartened, or get into a tiff and throw it up, because she isn't to be had at the first go. If she's worth winning, she's worth waiting for." Cyril heaved a sigh. Sybella was always giving vent to audible expirations of air, and the trick is infectious. "I think Jean is just exactly like Rachel," he said. "Rachel was so beautiful, you know." Jem's expression became comical. Had he uttered his thought, he would have said, "She's a queer little scarecrow, but she'll improve." Happily he was spared the need for a reply. "Hallo! There she is! Wait and see if she knows me. We've not met for two years." Jean advanced slowly, recognising Cyril, and perplexed at his position. Cyril would have struggled up, but for Jem's grasp. When Jean came near, a flash of light appeared in her eyes. "Cousin Jem!" she cried. Jem pulled her down on the grass beside him, and kissed her cheek. "How d'you do, little one? Can't get up, for I'm acting bolster. Here's somebody in mortal dread of a scolding from you. Tried to get over the stones, and turned giddy." "Cyril is always frightened," Jean said, with disdain. "It's not fear. He can't help the dizziness." Jean looked up in surprise. "Can't he?" "No. The feeling isn't cowardice. If he caved in, and made up his mind to be beaten, that would be cowardice. But he won't." "I won't, really and truly, Jean," pleaded Cyril. "I did try so hard." Jem's hand went with a tender motion over the curly hair. Jean saw and understood, the soft side of her nature springing in response. "You won't mind some day, Cyril."