ng? No, no, Sissy: they
felt very weak sometimes. Isn't there anything in the world you think you
could die for? Even if you say 'No' now, there may be something one of
these days."

The twilight hid the soft glow which overspread her face. "Anything in the
world you could die for?" Anything? Anybody? Her blood flowed in a strong,
courageous current as her heart made answer, "Yes--for one."

But she did not speak, and after a moment her companion changed the
subject. "That's a pretty ring," he said.

Sissy started from her reverie: "Horace gave it me. Adieu, Mr. Percival
Thorne: I'm going to look at my roses."

"Thank you. Yes, I shall be delighted to come." And Percival jumped out.
"Don't look at me as if I'd said something foolish. Isn't that the right
way to answer your kind invitation?"

"Invitation! What next?" demanded Sissy with pretty scorn. And the pair
went off together along the terrace and into the fragrant dusk.

A minute later it occurred to Mrs. Middleton to fear that Sissy might take
cold, and she went to the window to look after her. But, as no one was to
be seen, she turned away and encountered her brother, who had been watching
them too. "Do they care for each other?" he asked abruptly.

"How can I tell?" Mrs. Middleton replied. "Of course she is fond of him in
a way, but I can't help fancying sometimes that Horace--"

"Horace!" Mr. Thorne's smile was singularly bland. "Oh, indeed! Horace--a
charming arrangement! Pray how many more times is Mr. Horace to supplant
that poor boy?" His soft voice changed suddenly, as one might draw a sword
from its sheath. "Horace had better not cross Percival's path, or he will
have to deal with me. Is he not content? What next must he have?"

Mrs. Middleton paused. She could have answered him. There was an obvious
reply, but it was too crushing to be used, and Mr. Thorne braved it
accordingly.

"Better leave your grandsons alone, Godfrey," she said at last, "if you'll
take my advice; which I don't think you ever did yet. You'll only make
mischief. And there is Sissy to be considered. Let the child choose for
herself."

"And you think she can choose--_Horace?_"

"Why not?"

"Choose Horace rather than Percival?"

"I should," said the old lady with smiling audacity. "And I would rather
she did. Horace's position is better."

Mr. Thorne uttered something akin to a grunt, which might by courtesy be
taken for a groan: "Oh, how mercenary you women are! Well,