In some measure the same conditions surrounded the little Jean. There were barriers of repression, of non-comprehension, of outward coldness, fencing her in. But Jean was an Ingram as well as a Trevelyan. She had inherited from the two families a jumble of opposite characteristics. There was all the Trevelyan pride, with any amount of Ingram tenderness. There was the Trevelyan reserve, with the Ingram craving for sympathy. There was the Trevelyan hauteur, with the Ingram shyness. There was the Trevelyan disdain, with the Ingram susceptibility. There was all the force of the Trevelyan will, and with that there were odd touches of the Ingram readiness to yield. Here was the rough ore of the nature, out of which the future character had to be formed. The main question was—which of the opposing elements would be fostered, which would be crushed or starved out of existence? A child of nine has begun to take shape, but the materials are soft, and malleable by a touch. Jean did not call again, after her aunt's rebuke. She stood and watched with craving eyes, into which a look of loneliness had crept. Jean was always lonely when not with her brother Oswald. She loved Oswald with an absorbing devotion. He had rushed away, "promising faithfully" to return in five minutes for a game of bowls. The five minutes were long past, and he had not come. Lesson-time was drawing near. In forty minutes Madame Collier, with inexorable punctuality, would summon Jean to the dingy schoolroom, where she daily spent five hours of misery. These were the first days of Oswald's midsummer holidays—old style, meaning real midsummer;—but Jean, learning at home, was not supposed to need holidays. "Marie!" another voice called: a man's voice now. "Yes," Madame Collier answered. She straightened herself a second time, and looked towards the house, flushed with stooping. A gentleman came down the path with vigorous strides. He was of medium height and muscular in build, having strongly marked features. Permanent indentations stamped the brow, and the wide mouth closed habitually into a straight line; while the manner was prompt and resolute. His dress was severely clerical; the coat long. "Marie, I want a word with you." He did not observe the motionless figure of his little daughter, and Jean was wrapped up in her patient watch. "Bad news from The Brow." Dulveriford commonly spoke of Sybella's home as "The Brow" rather than by its full name of "Ripley Brow." The curtailment saved trouble. Madame Collier forgot Jean, or she would have sent the child out of hearing. It was a principle with that excellent lady that children should never hear aught beyond what directly concerns themselves. "Bad news!" she repeated, grasping with both hands her basket of gooseberries. "Mrs. Willoughby worse?" "Not materially. I suppose it to be merely a question of weeks with her; but I do not know that she is worse to-day than yesterday. The news is from abroad. Sir Theodore is dead!"