e, and had no perplexing elements about it. There were three
persons who were absolutely perfect. Jesus Christ Who lived in heaven,
but Who saw everything that took place on earth, and her own father
and mother. No one else was absolutely without sin, but these three
were. It was a most comfortable doctrine, and it sustained her little
heart through some perplexing passages in her small life. She used to
shut her eyes when her mother frowned, and say softly under her
breath--

"It's not wrong, 'cos it's mother. Mother couldn't do nothing wrong,
no more than Jesus could"; and she used to stop her ears when her
mother's voice, sharp and passionate, rang across the room. Something
was trying mother dreadfully, but mother had a right to be angry; she
was not sinful, like nurse, when she got into her tantrums. As to
father, he was never cross. He did look tired and disturbed sometimes.
It must be because he was sorry for the rest of the world. Yes, father
and mother were perfection. It was a great support to know this. It
was a very great honor to have been born their little girl. Every
morning when Sibyl knelt to pray, and every evening when she offered
up her nightly petitions, she thanked God most earnestly for having
given her as parents those two perfect people known to the world as
Philip Ogilvie and his wife.

"It was so awfully kind of you, Jesus," Sibyl would say, "and I must
try to grow up as nearly good as I can, because of You and father and
mother. I must try not to be cross, and I must try not to be vain, and
I must try to love my lessons. I don't think I am really vain, Jesus.
It is just because my mother likes me best when I am pretty that I
want to be pretty. It's for no other reason, really and truly; but I
don't like lessons, particularly spelling lessons. I cannot pretend I
do. Can I?"

Jesus never made any audible response to the child's query, but she
often felt a little tug at her heart which caused her to fly to her
spelling-book and learn one or two difficult words with frantic zeal.

As she ran downstairs now, she reflected over the problem of her
mother's kisses being softest and her mother's eyes kindest when her
own eyes were bright and her little figure radiant; and she also
thought of the other problem, of her grave-eyed father always loving
her, no matter whether her frock was torn, her hair untidy, or her
little face smudged.

Because of her cherubic face, Sibyl had been called the Ange