During her stay at Topbury she committed many such offences. She was a lawless little creature, strong of character, a wilful wisp of a child, and extraordinarily like Jehane. Her fragile eager face, with its coral mouth and soft dark eyes, could change from demure prettiness to a flame of anger the moment she was thwarted. Yet, smiling or stormy, her small-boned body and long black curls made her always beautiful--a wild and destructive kind of beauty. From the first she claimed Peter as her sole possession, and Peter---- Well, Peter did his best politely to avoid her. Glory was his favorite, though he often seemed to ignore her. She was the opposite to her half-sister in both appearance and temper. She had nothing of Jehane in her; nor did she resemble her soldier father. She was oddly like to Kay and to a man whom her mother had desired with all her heart. It was strange. She was gray-eyed and her hair was of a primrose shade. She was tall for her age--taller than Peter--and carried herself with sweet and subdued quietness. She said very little and had submissive ways. Her actions spoke loudly for anyone she loved. They spoke loudly for Peter; but he scarcely observed them. His eyes were all for Kay. Glory was like his shadow stealing after him across the sunlight through that month of June. Her hand was always slipping shyly into his from behind. And she understood his love for his sister, accepting it without question. She would go to her small half-brother, “Come along Eustace; Glory wants to show you something.” “But Eustace wanth to play wiv Kay.” “Eustace can play with Kay directly. Just come with Glory, there's a dear little boy.” She would nod to Peter knowingly, and smile to him, leading Eustace away and leaving him alone with Kay. He could fill her eyes with tears at the least show of irritation; her persistent following did irritate him sometimes. Once, cross because she followed, he told her to sit on the stable wall and not to move till he said she might. Tea-time came and there was no Glory. They searched the house for her and went out into the garden, calling. Not till Peter called did she answer; then he remembered why. He remembered years after the forlornness of that tear-stained face. It was Peterish of him to forget Glory, and to remember her almost too late. Nan, sitting sewing in the quiet sunlight, would often drop her work to watch the children. She noticed how they kept together, yet always a little separate, acting out the clash of temperaments which they had inherited from their parents. And she noticed increasingly something else--something which she never mentioned and which explained Jehane to her: that astonishing likeness of Glory to Kay, as though they had been sisters. She would call Glory to her and, as the child sat at her feet, would say, “Do you like Peter, darling?” The honest eyes would be lifted to her own in affirmation. “Very much?” “Very much, Auntie.”