a lonely man at the other side of
the world into whose heart she crept.

"I am quite cosy there," she said to herself, "for father's perfect
heart is big enough to hold me, however much I suffer, and however sad
I am."

Not that Sibyl was sad, nor did she suffer. After the first shock she
had no pain of any sort, and there never was a more tranquil little
face than hers as it lay on its daintily frilled pillow and looked out
at the shining river.

There was no part of the beautiful house half so beautiful as the room
given up to her use. It might well and aptly be called the Chamber of
Peace. Indeed, Miss Winstead, who was given to sentimentalities and
had a poetic turn of mind, had called Sibyl's chamber by this title.

From the very first the child never murmured. She who had been so
active, like a butterfly in her dancing motion, in her ceaseless
grace, lay on her couch uncomplaining. And as to pain, she had
scarcely any, and what little she had grew less day by day. The great
specialist from London said that this was the worst symptom of the
case, and established the fact beyond doubt that the spine was fatally
injured. It was a question of time. How long a time no one could quite
tell, but the great doctors shook their heads over the child, and an
urgent cablegram was sent to Ogilvie to hurry home without a moment's
delay.

But, though all her friends knew it, no one told Sibyl herself that
she might never walk again nor dance over the smoothly kept lawns, nor
mount the nameless pony, nor carry apples to Dan Scott. In her
presence people thought it their duty to be cheerful, and she was
always cheerful herself. After the first week or so, during which she
was more or less stunned and her head felt strangely heavy, she liked
to talk and laugh and ask questions. As far as her active little
brain went there was but little difference in her, except that now her
voice was low, and sometimes it was difficult to follow the rapid,
eager words. But the child's eyes were quite as clear and beautiful as
ever, and more than ever now there visited them that strange, far-away
look and that quick, comprehending gaze.

"I want nothing on earth but father, the touch of father's hand and
the look in his face," she said several times; and then invariably her
own eyes would follow the steamers and the boats as they went down the
river toward the sea, and she would smile as the remembrance of the
big ships came to her.

"Mis