"Oh, father!" The three young faces raised themselves to his in wide- eyed protest. The exclamation was unanimous; but when it was over there was a moment's silence before Hilary took up the strain. "We are dull, father! We are tired of ourselves. You are all day long in your study, the boys spend their time out of doors, and we have no friends. In summer time we don't feel it, for we live in the garden, and it is bright and sunny; but in winter it is dark and cold. No one comes to see us, the days are so long, and every day is like the last." "My dear, you have the housework, and the other two have their lessons. You are only children as yet, and your school days are not over. Most children are sent to boarding-schools, and have to work all day long. You have liberty and time to yourselves. I don't see why you should complain." "Father, I should like to go to school--I long to go--I want to get on with my music, and Miss Briggs can't teach me any more." "Father, when girls are at boarding-schools they have parties and theatricals, and go to concerts, and have all sorts of fun. We never have anything like that." "Father, I am not a child; I am nearly eighteen. Chrystabel Maynard was only seventeen at the beginning of the book?" Mr Bertrand stirred uneasily, and brushed the hair from his forehead. Chrystabel Maynard was one of his own heroines, and the allusion brought home the reality of his daughter's age as nothing else could have done. His glance passed by Norah and Lettice and lingered musingly on Hilary's face.