“I do believe you, and if I ever see this Sybil I will try to imitate her; but tell me, if after her, there was among your friends _one_ better than the rest, one almost as dear as I am, one whom you sometimes remember even now—is she living, or is she dead?” Wilford thought of that humble grave far off in St. Mary’s churchyard, and he answered quickly, “If there ever was such an one, she certainly is _not_ living. Are you satisfied?” Katy answered that she was, but perfect confidence in her husband’s affection had been terribly shaken, and Katy’s heart was too full to sleep even after she had retired. Visions of Sybil Grey, blended with visions of another whom she called the “dead fancy,” flitted before her mind, as she lay awake, while hour after hour went by, until tired nature could endure no longer, and just as the great city was waking up and the rattle of wheels was beginning to be heard upon the pavements, she fell away to sleep. CHAPTER XIV. EXTRACTS FROM BELL CAMERON’S DIARY. NEW YORK, December. After German Philosophy and Hamilton’s Metaphysics, it is a great relief to have introduced into the family an entirely new element—a character the dissection of which is at once a novelty and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find myself returning to my books with increased vigor after an encounter with that unsophisticated, innocent-minded creature, our sister-in-law Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage who was one day coming to us as Wilford’s wife, and of whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas, how hath our idol fallen! And still I rather like the little creature, who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death, giving her lace streamers a most uncomfortable twitch, and actually kissing _father_—a thing I have not done since I can remember. But then the Camerons are all a set of icicles, encased in a refrigerator at that. If we were not, we should thaw out, when Katy leans on us so affectionately and looks up at us so wistfully, as if pleading for our love. Wilford does wonders; he used to be so grave, so dignified and silent, that I never supposed he would bear having a wife meet him at the door with cooing and kisses, and climbing into his lap right before us all. Juno says it makes her sick, while mother is dreadfully shocked; and even Will sometimes seems annoyed, gently shoving her aside and telling her he is tired. After all, it is a query in my mind whether it is not better to be like Katy than like Sybil Grandon, about whom Juno was mean enough to tell her the first day of her arrival.