"Would you really not mind? There is a letter from my brother's lawyer which I cannot understand. Something about investments. He uses such odd phrases. And a cheque has come, which I sent to the Bank, and they would not change it. They said it was not endorsed. Pearce says that means writing one's name at the back. I have had to do it before, but I never can remember if I ought to write across or lengthways, and at which end." General Villiers solved this knotty point, and glanced at the lawyer's letter. "Nothing of importance," he said. "I will explain it by-and-by. I must not delay longer—speaking. I have brought you sad news." Sybella looked inquiring. General Villiers drew the child forward. "Can you see no likeness?" The boy turned his face towards her—a fragile colourless face, with violet eyes so dark as to be almost black, and a mass of brown hair curling thickly over the little head. "Sweet child!" murmured Sybella. Then, with a start, "Yes, I do see! Surely! He is like poor Olave—strangely like. Hers was such uncommon beauty. Dear little boy. He must be a nephew—but Olave had no brothers or sisters. You don't mean—it can't be that he—" "Cyril, kiss your aunt." Cyril crossed the short space between, and flung his arms around Miss Devereux with a short sob, as if his heart were full. "My dear boy! You sweet child!" exclaimed Sybella, embracing him with effusion. "Then this is our precious Cyril, and Theodore has come home. Why has he stayed behind? Is he not well? Tired with travelling? Cyril, my pet, don't cry. Oh, pray don't. Is he hungry? What can I get for him? Some seed-cake? Dear little boy! Why, Cyril, who would ever guess you to be more than seven years old? Such a tiny mite!" The child pressed his face into her shoulder, and General Villiers spoke slowly— "Your brother was breaking down fast. The doctors said our only hope was to get him away at once. It made no difference to me, for I was waiting to come with him. He would not let me telegraph word of our changed plans, for his wish was to surprise you." "And—" Sybella said. "For a day or two on board, he seemed to rally, but it did not last." "And—" repeated Sybella. The General bent his head. "This is now Sir Cyril Devereux!" he said. CHAPTER II. TAKING SHAPE. "Follow light and do the right—for man can half control his doom— Till you find the deathless angel, seated in the vacant tomb." TENNYSON. JEAN TREVELYAN stood at the gate of the Rectory kitchen-garden, gazing down the lane.