'Sybilla, I cannot have you speak so.'

'I think I had better not speak at all then,' said Sybilla; 'whatever I say is wrong.'

'I am sorry you speak so unbecomingly as to make me think so too. Good night.'

We went up-stairs, and Sybilla was very cross at my putting some of my things by mistake on her side of the room. I should not have remembered it till now, if it had not been the first time I ever recollect seeing her so.

The next day she was in the highest spirits, the next day in the lowest; once I found her crying, and so passed the rest of the week. My father said she missed Elizabeth, my mother looked at her and sighed.

Winter came and went with no event. We often heard from Godfrey; once he had been hunting with Lord Stapleton, and once, when spring had nearly merged into summer again, he had been over to Hobsham for a day's fishing, but then his lordship was with his Indian relation in Scotland.

And so the year crept round again till Godfrey was with us for his last visit. Fortunately, there was his outfit to occupy both our heads and hands, and an outfit for a five or six months' voyage.

Sybilla had grown her own dear self again; no, perhaps not quite that, but very nearly. Every now and then in the midst of one of her old soft peals of laughter, it ceased suddenly and ended in a sigh; but this was only when she was with us younger ones; with our father she was as merry and happy as ever, with our mother taking more and more the place of the daughter she had lost.

When Godfrey had been with us about a fortnight, he came home from London, saying he had called in Devonshire Street, found Lord Stapleton was in town, though out that morning. He wished some one would ask him down; he had said in the winter he should like to come and see him before he sailed.' My father seized on the

idea; my mother, I am sure, had no longer any fears about Sybilla. He was asked, but he did not come; his time was so fully occupied, his mother had a house full of guests, amongst others, his Indian uncle, to whom he was very anxious to introduce Godfrey; would he dine and sleep in Devonshire Street on an early day? which he named.

Sybilla was most unselfishly glad that her brother should have this pleasure, and such an insight into English society, before he went. He came home the next day with a face full of news. 'Had he enjoyed himself?' 'Yes, very much, but he was sure Lord Stapleton was in love with one of Sir David Home's daughters.' He was almost sure they were engaged, for he asked her if she liked going back to Calcutta, and she equivocated and coloured, and he felt quite sure she was not going back at all. He had never seen anything so lovely as her golden hair, 'so different from yours, Sibby;' and it was such fun to see Lord Stapleton in love.

Sybilla laughed as merrily as any of us at his boyish glee in his imagined discernment, and talked over all the events of his visit with all her old affection and interest for everything he said and did, and without the appearance of a pang, on his continual harping on the beauty and singing of the Indian cousin. When I say without the appearance, I am very far from accusing her of disingenuousness. I believe she felt so sure of the sincerity of all Lord Stapleton had said to her, that if they had never met again she would have trusted him as fully to the end of her lifetime as she had to the end of this year. The Stapleton family left town early, and we heard no more of them. The time for Godfrey's departure was drawing terribly near. Oh! you who know what it is to part with a brother or sister for India now, think what it was then! A five or six months' voyage; an eternity of separation, which seemed to make letters of no avail; an unhealthy

climate little understood; the grave of body to one-half who went out tempted by the golden baits these disadvantages compelled the Company to offer; and the grave of soul to too many of the few who weathered a climate which, in destroying others, made but quicker way for them. Not that I thought of all this then, but my mother must have done so; even Sybilla must have foreseen it in part; and what their misery must have been when they said good-bye, I cannot bear to think. Poor Godfrey! for the last few days he hid himself from us all, even from his mother, and cried bitterly and incessantly.

When he was gone, my mother went up-stairs alone, motioning Sybilla back when she seemed to offer to follow. It was a dreary morning. Poor Sybilla was stupifed with the reality of grief which had come upon her. It was holiday time with us all. Frederick was at home from Cambridge, our governess away. Sybilla sat at the drawing-room table, her head on her hands, looking dreamily at nothing. I was in the furthest corner of the room, trying to read; my ready childish tears had already hushed half my grief away.

Presently Frederick came in, a paper in his hand 'Here is news!' he said. 'Stapleton's marriage. I suppose that made him too busy to write to Godfrey.' His tone was careless and cheerful, but his eyes were very red. I believe he meant kindly to distract Sybilla's thoughts. She started as if she had not seen him enter, then took the paper and read it over with him, and said indifferently, Then Godfrey was right.'

6

Frederick loitered about a little, and then left us. Sybilla seized hold of the paper, and holding it firmly, read it again. 'I hate him,' she muttered bitterly, crushing it in her hand. 'I will never think of him again.'

She sat still one minute, with what bitter contempt in her sweet young face! then started up and ran off, I suppose to the nursery, for she came down with Henrietta

and Edward, and spent the rest of the morning in playing with them on the lawn.

My mother came down to dinner; her face was very pale, but her tone and manner as kind and cheerful as ever, though her voice faltered sometimes; and sometimes she seemed to look round for a missing one, and a pang passed over her face as she remembered he must be missed for many a long year yet. She kissed us each when she came down, and said some fond word to each. I remembered afterwards Sybilla shrank from her kiss as if it burnt her.

All that afternoon Sybilla laughed, and talked, and sang. It was in vain my mother tried to make her lie down and rest, or induce her to settle to any quiet occupation. She was flying all over the house throughout the afternoon, playing with the children, or singing, wandering about by herself, till my mother gave it up, and sank back into her chair, and for a little time forgot even her other children in the great sorrow she was trying to bear wholesomely.

Our father came home to tea very much cast down, and she forgot herself at once as with quiet, but cheerful tenderness, she welcomed him, and tried to wile him out of his grief by interesting him in other things. But it only dispirited him the more, and then she left him alone quietly.

But Sybilla would not let him alone, and sometimes her lively speeches brought a smile back to him; but if they did he sighed, and was the sadder the next minute. After tea he went to his arm-chair, and shut himself from us resolutely; and Sybilla took the children into the window and made them play at 'bo-peep.' Her laugh was the loudest of them all. Our father looked up impatiently, but when he saw who it was, sank his head again without speaking. Her laugh grew louder and more frequent, till my mother covered her face in her hands and cried.

My father looked up again. 'Sybilla, if you have no feeling yourself,' he said sharply, 'you might, at least, remember others have. If you can't be quiet, you had better go away.'

Sybilla sprang up from the ground, put Edward down roughly, and glancing round indignantly, walked away in silence. Oh! what a wild piteous glance that was! When I went to bed, to my surprise, I found her already there. She seemed fast asleep, and even when I lay down beside her, did not move. The darkness and loneliness of feeling myself alone and awake in the dim twilight brought back all my morning's grief, and I had heard my father and mother come up long before I had cried myself to sleep Just as I was at last dozing, I felt sure I heard a bitter sob. I started up, easily frightened, but all was still and quiet, and, wearied out, I was soon fast asleep.

I was still young enough to sleep, in general, through all the night, and when I woke up, hearing some one moving, I never thought, when I opened my eyes, but that it would be broad daylight; instead of that, the day was but just beginning to dawn. There was only light enough to show me Sybilla sitting up in bed. I lay looking at her. too sleepy to show that I was awake, till her low wretched moan made me start up, asking What was the matter?'

'Nothing, nothing,' she answered quickly; go to sleep again, dear.'

But I could not, for although I do not know what alarmed me so much, I felt as if I dared not go to sleep. I lay still and motionless, but my eyes were fixed on my sister, who still sat up, as motionless as myself. Suddenly she bowed her head to her very knees, and groaned. 'I said I hated him, and I do. But I cannot, cannot forget. Oh Godfrey, Godfrey!

'You don't hate him? I cried, springing up.

She made no answer. Presently she raised her head