There could be no mistake about the matter. Cyril came down to breakfast, hoarse as a raven, sneezing, heavy-eyed, feverish and listless. He did his best to talk in a natural voice, but the effort was a failure. And every time he coughed, Sybella said "Ah!" 'expressively. She was so gratified with her own sagacity, as quite to have recovered her good-humour. All breakfast-time, she plied Cyril with questions. Had he a pain here, a feeling of tightness there, a kind of oppression within, a sort of chilliness everywhere? Had he— "Ah! There!" as Cyril sneezed. Poor dear boy! Well, he would have to stay indoors, of course, and take care of himself. Nothing like nipping a cold in the bud, especially in summer when of course there are draughts everywhere. A little prudence earlier would have prevented all this; but now—yes, the best plan would be to stay quietly in the study, with the window shut, and a nice little story to read. And he must have broth and toast for lunch; and a horrible camomile compound such as "my dear aunt always gave me when I had a cold;" and then if he did not get better by the evening, "I must just send for Dr. Ingram." Cyril stoutly rebelled. He had begun to feel his power. He had had the bit between his teeth yesterday evening, and he began to champ it again now. It was impossible to forget so soon his aunt's contemptuous utterance of the Trevelyan name. He knew also that Jean might expect him to look in and inquire after the robin. He did not mention Jean, but his lips took an obstinate curve, as he answered, "I'm not going to be boxed up indoors all day." Sybella declined to hear the protest. She talked on through breakfast; she reiterated warnings past, causes present, results future. She discussed Cyril into the Study; she shut and bolted the window; she gave him a pretty story-book; she pitied his hoarseness; she fidgeted to and fro; she went verbally through a list of remedies; she threatened Dr. Ingram anew. Finally she disappeared to attend to household duties; and when, half-an-hour later, she came back, carrying for her invalid a hot treacle posset, which after much circumlocution of ideas she had decided upon as superior to even the camomile compound—lo and behold, the bird was flown. "Yea, ma'am, Sir Cyril is gone out," Pearce said, when Sybella had poured upon him a small cascade of questions and sentiments. "He didn't mean to be long, he said." "He will get a fresh chill. He will be laid by with inflammation of the lungs! Another attack of congestion!" gasped Sybella. "So wrong—so thoughtless!" "It's an uncommon hot day, ma'am," averred Pearce, with a glance at the August sky. "But damp—quite damp. The air is full of damp," declared Sybella. "See what an amount of dew on the grass. Dew always means damp in the air," she went on scientifically. Like most unlearned people, Sybella was positive in proportion to her ignorance.