votion to her brother grew with every month of her life. She thought
him, in all honesty, the most miraculous of all human beings. There
was more in her worship than mere dog-like fidelity. She adored him for
reasons that were real and true; for his independence, his obstinacy,
his sense of fun, his sudden, unexpected kindnesses, his sudden
helplessness, and above all, for his bravery. He seemed to her the
bravest hero in all history, and she felt it the more because she was
herself compact of every fear and terror known to man. It was not enough
for her, the ordinary panic that belongs to all human life at every
stage of its progress. She feared everything and everybody, and only
hid her fear by a persistent cover of almost obstinate stupidity,
which deceived, to some extent, her relations, but never in any degree
herself. She knew that she was plain, awkward and hesitating, but she
knew also that she was clever. She knew that she could do everything
twice as fast as Jeremy and Helen, that she was often so impatient
of their slow progress at lessons that she would beat her foot on the
ground in a kind of agonised impatience. She knew that she was clever,
and she wondered sometimes why her cleverness did not give her more
advantage. Why, for instance, should Helen's good looks be noticed at
once by every visitor and her own cleverness be unnoticed? Certainly,
on occasions, her mother would say: "And Mary? I don't think you've met
Mary. Come and say, how do you do, Mary. Mary is the clever one of the
family!" but it was always said in a deprecating, apologetic tone, which
made Mary hang her head and hate both herself and her mother.

She told herself stories of the times when Jeremy would have to depend
entirely upon the splendour of her brains for his delivery from some
horror--death, torture or disgrace. At present those times were, she was
bound to confess to herself, very distant. He depended upon no one
for anything; he could not be said to need Mary's assistance in any
particular. And with this burning desire of hers came, of course,
jealousy. There are some happy, easy natures to whom jealousy is,
through life, unknown. They are to be envied. Jealousy in a grown-up
human being is bad; in a child it is terrible. Had you told Mrs.
Cole--good mother though she was--that her daughter Mary, aged seven,
suffered tortures through jealousy, she would have assured you that it
was not, in reality, jealousy, but rather indige