"Only that some day I may want to hear you sing my praises instead of hers. I suppose"--she gave her twisted smile--"one could become jealous of a daughter." "You jealous!" She looked at him with humorous discernment. "Why not?" And without waiting for an answer she went on: "Do you know what I wish for both the children? You'll think it's treachery." "Tell me." "Marriage." He made her a little bow. "May I take that as a compliment. It's perhaps the happiest wish for them, the happiest work, but I can't have Theresa wasted. She must have her chance." "Don't you think she'll make it if she deserves it?" "Ah, my dear, that's not quite fair. We must do all we can." "Then I think we'd better try to cure her temper." "I'm afraid," he confessed--"I'm afraid I like it in her. It's abnormal, you see." "Oh, Edward, Edward, isn't that rather like catching at straws?" "Certainly not," he said, with a little indignation. And then, somewhat shamefacedly, he added: "The fact is, I can't dislike anything in her." He looked through the window, and his brow was wrinkled. "Do you think," he asked half timidly, "that she is suffering?" "I hope so," Nancy said. CHAPTER VI Sunday morning was the time for putting on clean clothes. "I wish I was a beggar child," Theresa said in Grace's sleepy ear, when the bells were ringing for early service. "Why?" Much of the vividness of Grace's life came from her sister's attitude towards existence. "I shouldn't have to put on scratchy things each Sunday." "If you'd only keep quiet they wouldn't be so bad, and you're such a good pretender, Terry, that you could easily believe they were made of silk." "I suppose princesses have silken things, don't they? I think I could pretend that." She was glad to have an easy way of keeping her temper, for, after a scene of great gravity on her parents' part and more or less contrition on her own, it had been decided that the adventure was only to be related to her that night if her day had been passed in amiability; and though her resentment would be long in dying, curiosity lived more strongly. "Let's go to sleep again," said Grace. Theresa nestled into the curve of the other's body. "Did I hurt you yesterday?" she whispered. "Not a bit," Grace answered, with disappointing cheerfulness. Theresa was determined to be sensational. "I really did want to kill you!" "Oh, I know," said Grace obligingly. "Wouldn't it have been awful if I had? Would I have been hung? Perhaps not, as I'm a little girl." "Don't talk about it." "I like to. They would have taken me up and tried me, wouldn't they? And I should have been dressed in black, and I should have had a tear-stained face." "Terry, I wish you wouldn't; I hate things like deaths." "I love them," said Theresa with relish. "Have you ever seen Bessie's brother? He's a policeman. He can tell you lots of things." "I'm sick of Bessie's brother. Yes, I've seen him. I don't believe he could catch anyone."