was not that the girl resisted or
complained. Mrs. Thesiger would have understood objections and
complaints. She would not have minded them; she could have coped with
them. There would have been little scenes, with accusations of
ingratitude, of undutifulness, and Mrs. Thesiger was not averse to the
excitement of little scenes. But Sylvia never complained; she maintained
a reserve, a mystery which her mother found very uncomfortable. "She has
no sympathy," said Mrs. Thesiger. Moreover, she would grow up, and she
would grow up in beauty and in freshness. Mrs. Thesiger did her best. She
kept her dressed in a style which suited a younger girl, or rather, which
would have suited a younger girl had it been less decorative and extreme.
Again Sylvia did not complain. She followed her usual practice and shut
her mind to the things which displeased her so completely, that they
ceased to trouble her. But Mrs. Thesiger never knew that secret; and
often, when in the midst of her chatter she threw a glance at the
elaborate figure of her daughter, sitting apart with her lace skirts too
short, her heels too high, her hat too big and too fancifully trimmed,
she would see her madonna-like face turned toward her, and her dark eyes
thoughtfully dwelling upon her. At such times there would come an
uncomfortable sensation that she was being weighed and found wanting; or
a question would leap in her mind and bring with it fear, and the same
question which she had asked herself in the train on the way to Chamonix.

"You ask me about my daughter?" she once exclaimed pettishly to
Monsieur Pettigrat. "Upon my word, I really know nothing of her except
one ridiculous thing. She always dreams of running water. Now, I ask
you, what can you do with a daughter so absurd that she dreams of
running water?"

Monsieur Pettigrat was a big, broad, uncommon man; he knew that he was
uncommon, and dressed accordingly in a cloak and a brigand's hat; he saw
what others did not, and spoke in a manner suitably impressive.

"I will tell you, madame, about your daughter," he said somberly. "To me
she has a fated look."

Mrs. Thesiger was a little consoled to think that she had a daughter with
a fated look.

"I wonder if others have noticed it," she said, cheerfully.

"No," replied Monsieur Pettigrat. "No others. Only I."

"There! That's just like Sylvia," cried Mrs. Thesiger, in exasperation.
"She has a fated look and makes nothing of it."

But the secret