l when
quite a baby, and somehow the name stuck to her, particularly on the
lips of her father. It is true she had a sparkling face and soft
features and blue eyes; but she was, when all is said and done, a
somewhat worldly little angel, and had, both in the opinions of Miss
Winstead and nurse, as many faults as could well be packed into the
breast of one small child. Both admitted that Sibyl had a very loving
heart, but she was fearless, headstrong, at times even defiant, and
was very naughty and idle over her lessons.

Miss Winstead was fond of taking complaints of Sibyl to Mrs. Ogilvie,
and she was fond, also, of hoping against hope that these complaints
would lead to satisfactory results; but, as a matter of fact, Mrs.
Ogilvie never troubled herself about them. She was the sort of woman
who took the lives of others with absolute unconcern; her own life
absorbed every thought and every feeling. Anything that added to her
own comfort was esteemed; anything that worried her was shut as much
as possible out of sight. She was fond of Sibyl in her careless way.
There were moments when she was proud of the pretty and attractive
child, but she had not the slightest idea of attempting to mould her
character, nor of becoming her instructress. One of Mrs. Ogilvie's
favorite theories was that mothers should not educate their children.

"The child should go to the mother for love and petting," she would
say. "Miss Winstead may complain of the darling as much as she
pleases, but need not suppose that I shall scold her."

It was Sibyl's father, after all, who now and then spoke to her about
her unworthy conduct.

"You are called the Angel, and you must try to act up to your name,"
he said on one of these occasions, fixing his own dark-grey eyes on
the little girl.

"Oh, yes, father," answered the Angel, "but, you see, I wasn't born
that way, same as you was. It seems a pity, doesn't it? You're perfect
and I am not. I can't help the way I was born, can I, father?"

"No; no one is perfect, darling," replied the father.

"You are," answered the Angel, and she gave her head a defiant toss.
"You and my mother and my beautiful Lord Jesus up in heaven. But I'll
try to please you, father, so don't knit up your forehead."

Sibyl as she spoke laid her soft hand on her father's brow and tried
to smooth out some wrinkles.

"Same as if you was an old man," she said: "but you're perfect,
perfect, and I love you, I love you," and she