There was a definite threat in the last words. But Garratt Skinner had already made up his mind. Since the game was played out, since defeat had come, he took it without anger or excuse. "Very well," he said. "Peace in the family circle is after all very desirable--eh, Sylvia? I agree with the deepest regret to part from my young friend, Walter Hine. I leave him in your hands." He was speaking with a humorous magnanimity. But his eyes wandered back to Sylvia, who sat some distance away in the embrasure of the window, with her face in her hands; and his voice changed. "Sylvia," he said, gently, "come here." Sylvia rose and walked over to the table. The waiting, the knowledge which had come to her during the last few days, had told their tale. She had the look which Chayne too well remembered, the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the languor in her walk, the pallor in her cheeks, the distress and shame in her expression. "Sit down," he said; and she obeyed him reluctantly, seating herself over against him. She gazed at the table-cloth with that mutinous look upon her face which took away from her her womanhood and gave to her the aspect of a pretty but resentful child. Garratt Skinner for the life of him could not but smile at her. "Well, Sylvia, you have beaten me. You fought your fight well, and I bear you no malice," he said, lightly. "But," and his voice became serious again, "you sit in judgment on me." Sylvia raised her eyes quickly. "No!" she cried. "I think so," he persisted. "I don't blame you. Only I should like you to bear this in mind; that you have in your own life a reason to go gently in your judgments of other people." Chayne stepped forward, as though he would interfere, but Sylvia laid her hand upon his arm and checked him. "I don't think you understand, Hilary," she said, quickly. She turned to her father and looked straight at him with an eager interest. "I wonder whether we are both thinking of the same thing," she said, curiously. "Perhaps," replied her father. "All your life you have dreamed of running water." And Sylvia nodded her head. "Yes, yes," she said, with a peculiar intentness. "The dream is part of you, part of your life. For all you know, it may have modified your character." "Yes," said Sylvia. "It is a part of you of which you could not rid yourself if you tried. When you are asleep, this dream comes to you. It is as much a part of you as a limb." And again Sylvia answered: "Yes." "Well, you are not responsible for it," and Sylvia leaned forward. "Ah!" she said. She had been wondering whether it was to this point that he was coming. "You know now why you hear it, why it's part of you. You were born to the sound of running water in that old house in Dorsetshire. Before you were born, in the daytime and in the stillness of the night your mother heard it week after week. Perhaps even when she was asleep the sound rippled through her dreams. Thus you came by it. It was born in you."