ch better than nice, he is perfect; he never did anything
wrong. He is perfect, same as Lord Jesus is perfect."

The little girl looked straight out into the summer landscape. Her
lips trembled, on each cheek there flushed a crimson rose.

Lord Grayleigh shuffled his feet. Had anyone in all the world told him
that he would have listened quietly, and with a sense of respect, to
such a story as he was now hearing, he would have roared with
laughter. But he was not at all inclined to laugh now that he found
himself face to face with Sibyl.

"And mother is perfect, too," she said, turning and facing him.

Then he did laugh; he laughed aloud.

"Oh, no," he said.

"So you don't wonder that I hate you," continued Sibyl, taking no
notice of that last remark. "It's 'cos you like to tell lies about
good people. My father is perfect, and you called him unscroopolus. No
wonder I hate you."

"Listen now, little girl." Lord Grayleigh took the hot, trembling
hand, and drew the child to his side.

"Don't shrink away, don't turn from me," he said; "I am not so bad as
you make me out. If I did make use of such an expression, I have
forgotten it. Men of the world say lots of things that little girls
don't understand. Little girls of eight years old, if they are to grow
up nice and good, and self-respecting, must take the world on trust.
So you must take me on trust, and believe that even if I did say what
you accuse me of saying, I still have a great respect for your father.
I think him a right down _good_ fellow."

"The best in all the world?" queried Sibyl.

"I am sure at least of one thing, that no little girl ever had a
fonder father."

"And you own up you told a lie? You do own up that father's quite
perfect?"

"Men like myself don't care to own themselves in the wrong," said Lord
Grayleigh, "and the fact is--listen, you queer little mortal--I don't
like perfect people. It is true that I have never met any."

"You have met my father and my mother."

"Come, Sibyl, shall we make a compromise? I like you, I want you to
like me. Forget that I said what I myself have forgotten, and believe
that I have a very great respect for your father. Come, if he were
here, he would ask you to be friendly with me."

"Would he?" said the child. She looked wistful and interested. "There
are lots of things I want to be 'splained to me," she said. Then,
after a moment--"I'll think whether I'll be friends with you, and
I'll let you know