"He is cruel. Every one is cruel," she said, in a choked, unnatural voice. And then, with a dry sob, "Oh, why am I not lying there in her place!" "Do not say that, dear child," returned Althea, gently; "for then Mollie would have to suffer." And at this Waveney winced. "Where are you going?" Althea spoke rather nervously, for again the girl seemed about to leave her. "Oh, Waveney, surely you will not go against your father's wishes." But she need not have asked the question. The loyal little soul would have died sooner than grieve that beloved parent. "No, I cannot disobey father," she said, in a dull voice; and her poor little face looked so white and rigid. "I am going to my own room now." "Will you not stay and let me talk to you a little?" asked Althea, anxiously. "You are taking things too hardly, dear. Mollie may be better to-morrow." But she spoke to deaf ears. "No, no. Please do not keep me. I must be alone. There is no use in talking. How do you know, how does any one know about things?" and Waveney abruptly turned away. Althea's eyes looked very sad as the door closed behind her. "I knew it," she said to herself. "I knew how she would suffer. Her nature is intense. Those who love much, suffer much. Mollie and she seem to have only one heart between them. It is not so with all twins." But the next moment her dreary moralising was interrupted; for Waveney came hastily back and stood by her. "I did not bid you good-night," she said, huskily. "I am afraid I was rude and abrupt; but I did not mean it. And you are so kind, so kind." Then Althea put her arms round the girl and kissed her tenderly. "My dear, do not trouble about that. I quite understand. May I come to you presently? I may be able to think of something to comfort you." But Waveney shook her head. "No; please do not come. There is no comfort for me while my Mollie is ill and suffering;" and Waveney drew her cold hands out of Althea's detaining grasp. It was sad to see how her step had suddenly lost its springiness. To be alone--that was her one thought now, as it is the instinct of all sorely wounded creatures in God's free world. Waveney never recalled that night of misery without a shudder. The sudden shock quite prostrated her. That Mollie should be ill, perhaps dangerously ill!--for every one knew that people died of diphtheria: Princess Alice had, and the butcher's little daughter, and one or two others that she and Mollie knew--that Mollie should be ill, and that her only sister should not be allowed to nurse her!--this was almost inconceivable to Waveney. It was this separation that seemed so unnatural, and Waveney chafed bitterly against her father's restrictions. After those first unguarded expressions she did not blame him in words, but again and again in her heart she accused him of cruelty.