oo much caution.

Only a moment did Sybil listen, and then, gathering up the silken train,
and crushing it into a soft mass under her hand, she crept noiselessly
as a cat to the door of her mother's room, bent down her head and
listened there.

[Illustration: Only a moment did Sybil listen.]

Five minutes, ten, and still they talked, and still Sybil stood,
moveless and intent. Then, drawing back suddenly, she ran hurriedly down
the hall, and had gained the foot of the stairs before the sound of the
opening door admonished her that she had escaped none too soon.

In a moment she had entered the drawing room, and, with more of her
olden gayety than they had seen in her manner for many long days,
approached the loiterers at the piano.

"Mother! mother! your hand is out of time!" and, in a moment, she had
drawn her astonished mother from the stool, and seated herself in the
vacant place.

"Sing, Frank," she commanded, striking the keys with a crash that died
away in discord. "We have been dull too long."

When Jasper Lamotte and his model son-in-law entered the drawing room,
they found Frank singing, Sybil accompanying him with dextrous fingers,
and Mrs. Lamotte half resting near them, with veiled eyes, and her
serenest cast of countenance.

Casting one keen glance toward Burrill, which, being interpreted, meant,
"I told you so, you fool," Mr. Lamotte seated himself beside his wife.

John Burrill, during his interview with his father-in-law, had become a
shade more reasonable, and less inclined to think that, in order to
vindicate his wounded sensibilities, he must "have it out with Sybil."
But his face still wore a surly look, and Frank, who was not over
delicate in such matters, looked askance at him, and then whispered to
Sybil, under cover of a softly played interlude that he "scented battle
afar off."

Sybil's only answer was a low, meaning laugh, and when he had finished
his song, she played on and on and on. _Sonata, bravura, fantasia,
rondo_; a crash and whirl--rapid, swift, sweet, brilliant, cold; no
feeling, no pathos. A fanciful person might have traced something of
exultation and defiance, in those dashing, rippling waves of music.

Presently she stopped and turned to Frank.

"What shall you do in the morning?" she asked, abruptly.

Frank ran his fingers through his hair, after a fashion he much
affected, and replied, slowly:

"Well, really! Nothing important. Going to ride to the office--meanin