“I don’t care what the doctor says!” cried Effie. “I mean to do as I like now. I’ve obeyed doctors quite long enough, and I’m not a bit better for it. You shall be my doctor, Cyril. I shall obey you and defy everybody else. Won’t it be fun? Do ask about a nice horse for me. Father will give me anything I want, I know. And he thinks such a lot of you, Cyril. If you’ll only be there to help me, he won’t mind what I do.” “And when once you can ride, there’ll be plenty of fun for us all in the summer,” went on Cyril. “We can get up picnics and water-parties and things like that; and when your birthday comes we might have a regular _fête_ in the park, with sports or mild polo or steeplechase, and you should show off your prowess. Perhaps by the autumn you might be promoted to a hunter and ride to hounds. There’s some very good country all round here, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t take your place as the heiress of Cossart Place, which is what you are, Effie. You ought to be quite a great lady in Isingford and its vicinity.” When Cyril was gone, after spending an hour with the two girls and leaving them quite roused up and full of pleasureable excitement, Effie turned to Sheila and exclaimed eagerly— “Isn’t he splendid!” “He’s very kind and nice,” answered Sheila, “so different from the rest. I don’t mean that they’re not all nice; but Cyril seems to belong to a different world.” “Yes, doesn’t he? That’s just how I feel. He’s always been so different from the rest. The funny thing is, that father does not think half as much of him as he does of North; but I never could care a bit for North. Cyril is worth ten of him.” “He has been brought up so differently—has been to public school and college. I like University men; they are quite different from others. I can’t bear that Oscar shouldn’t finish his course there; but still, he always will have the air of an Oxford man everywhere!” Sheila spoke with sisterly pride, but Effie was not listening. Her thoughts had gone off on their own tack. Presently she asked with a would-be air of carelessness— “Did Cyril ever talk about me to you, those days you were in River Street?” Sheila paused and hesitated. Cyril had sometimes spoken of Effie, but always in a rather slighting fashion, not unkindly exactly, but as though he held her in rather small estimation. If Sheila had not hurt Effie’s feelings once already to-day, she might have answered with more truth than diplomacy, but she had had a lesson and was too good-natured to give pain willingly, so she replied after a moment’s pause— “Yes, he talked about you several times. He is fond of coming here, I think. He likes the house and the park and garden. Are you and he great friends, Effie? I thought you seemed to be.”