Lemuel began to grow red at the first apprehension of her meaning. As she went on, he changed colour more and more. “She is alive!” cried Sibyl. “She's alive, and you have seen her! You needn't deny it! You've seen her to-day!” Lemuel rose in clumsy indignation. “I don't know as anybody's got any right to say what I've done, or haven't done.” “O Lemuel!” cried Sibyl. “Do you think anyone in this house would intrude in your affairs? But if you need a friend--a sister----” “I don't need any sister. I want you should let me alone.” At these words, so little appreciative of her condescension, her romantic beneficence, her unselfish interest, Sibyl suddenly rebounded to her former level, which she was sensible was far above that of this unworthy object of her kindness. She rose from her chair, and pursued-- “If you need a friend--a sister--I'm sure that you can safely confide in--the cook.” She looked at him a moment, and broke into a malicious laugh very unlike that of a social reformer, which rang shriller at the bovine fury which mounted to Lemuel's eyes. The rattle of a night-latch made itself heard in the outer door. Sibyl's voice began to break, as it rose: “I never expected to be treated in my own aunt's house with such perfect ingratitude and impudence--yes, impudence!--by one of her servants!” She swept out of the room, and her aunt, who entered it, after calling to her in vain, stood with Lemuel, and heard her mount the stairs, sobbing, to her own room, and lock herself in. “What is the matter, Lemuel?” asked Miss Vane, breathing quickly. She looked at him with the air of a judge who would not condemn him unheard, but would certainly do so after hearing him. Whether it was Lemuel's perception of this that kept him silent, or his confusion of spirit from all the late rapidly successive events, or a wish not to inculpate the girl who had insulted him, he remained silent. “Answer me!” said Miss Vane sharply. Lemuel cleared his throat. “I don't know as I've got anything to say,” he answered finally. “But I insist upon your saying something,” said Miss Vane. “What is this _impudence?_” “There hasn't been any impudence,” replied Lemuel, hanging his head. “Very well, then, you can tell me what Sibyl means,” persisted Miss Vane. Lemuel seemed to reflect upon it. “No, I can't tell you,” he said at last, slowly and gently. “You refuse to make any explanation whatever?” “Yes.” Miss Vane rose from the chair which she had mechanically sunk into while waiting for him to speak, and ceased to be the kindly, generous soul she was, in asserting herself as a gentlewoman who had a contumacious servant to treat with. “You will wait here a moment, please.” “All right,” said Lemuel. She had asked him not to receive instructions from her with that particular answer, but he could not always remember.