"Oh, you have experience of me. You know how trying you find me in certain moods. To-day I am in a very strange mood indeed; very malicious, very wicked. And it is Sunday." Miriam did not seem to resent this. She looked away at the window, but smiled. Could Cecily have been aware how her face had changed when the door opened, she would not have doubted whether she was truly welcome. "What book is that, Miriam?" Cecily had been half afraid to ask; to her surprise it proved to be Dante. "Do you read this on Sunday?" Miriam deigned no reply. The other, sitting just in front of her, took up the volume and rustled its leaves. "How far have you got? This pencil mark? 'Amor ch'a null' amato amar perdona.'" She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close. Miriam's face showed a sudden and curious emotion. Glancing at the book, she said abruptly: "No; that's an old mark--a difficulty I had. I'm long past that." "So am I. 'Amor ch'a null'--'" Miriam stretched out her hand and took the volume with impatience. "I'm at the end of this canto," she said, pointing. "Never mind it now. I should have thought you would have gone somewhere such a fine afternoon." "That sounds remarkably like a hint that patience is near its end." "I didn't mean it for that." "Then let us get a carriage and drive somewhere together, we two alone." Miriam shook her head. "Because it is Sunday?" asked Cecily, with a mischievous smile, leaning her head aside. "There is an understanding between us, Cecily. Don't break it." "But I told you my mood was wicked. I feel disposed to break any and every undertaking. I should like to fret and torment and offend you. I should like to ask you why _I_ am allowed to enjoy the sunshine, and you not? _Oggi e festa_! What a dreadful sound that must have in your ears Miriam!" "But they don't apply it to Sunday," returned the other, who seemed to resign herself to this teasing. "Indeed they do!" With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added, "Your brother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye." "Did he?" "It doesn't interest you. You care nothing where he goes, or what he does--nothing whatever, Miriam. He told me so; but I knew it already." "He told you so?" Miriam asked, with cold surprise. "Yes. You are unkind; you are unnatural." "And you, Cecily, are childish. I never knew you so childish as to-day." "I warned you. He and I had a long talk before aunt came home." "I'm sorry he should have thought it necessary to talk about himself." "What more natural, when he is beginning a new portion of life? Never mind; we won't speak of it. May I play you a new piece I have learnt?" "Do you mean, of sacred music?"