As for Muriel, that little fairy danced her way into the father's heart as she had into the son's. John had been very guarded in his remarks about Muriel, so guarded, that his father guessed all immediately. Muriel herself soon decided that Mr. Dean should have been Mr. Ribble's brother. There was the same genial, somewhat "curly-crinkly" appearance, as she called it, and as she confessed to him one evening when he had begged a kiss in return for a box of chocolates, she was glad he was not as serious as John, "who looks at me like a collie dog and wags his tail when I smile." Mr. Dean laughed heartily at this, it was so truly descriptive of John, who followed her in silence and devotion. When Mr. Dean left, he took Muriel on one side. "I wonder if I can ask you a favour?--it's for John's sake," he added, as she looked up at him. "You see he has no brothers, and no sisters, which is even more important for a boy, and living somewhat lonely, I'm afraid he may become self-centred, which means being selfish, so I want you to be his official sister. He'll talk to you. I think he'll even tell you his dreams and ambitions, things he would never tell to other boys because he feels he is just a little different from them. I think he is, for instance, too highly sensitive. I want him to grow out of that; and only sharing confidences will help him. So I'm asking you, Muriel, to make a brother of him, if you will?" Muriel had never quite looked at it in this light; then she had a swift intuition that Mr. Dean was not in the dark. A sister--that meant service in return. It meant something more than having John as a courtier--it meant, yes, running after him a little bit if necessary, and--oh clever Mr. Dean!--sharing him with other friends. She promised readily. She was going to be a sister to John. Another week and they had left the Vernleys and were at the Marsh's. John's father had been doubtful regarding young Marsh for a day or two. There was no question of the boy's brilliance, but he distrusted precocious persons, and Marsh's omniscient cynicism was not healthy in a boy of seventeen. He attached too much importance to the smartness of a thing. All his opinions were original and brilliant, but they were dominated by those ends rather than by a love of truth. It was not good that John should see the ridiculous, bizarre or cynical aspect of life before he had tasted its wholesomeness; and there was that in Marsh's character, so restless, so desirous of things because they were new rather than good or genuine, which made his judgments unbalanced for all their refreshing enthusiasm.