ake their course and not to fan the flame by
opposition. She was always kind to the young man, and though she
generally contrived to keep Jill beside her when he dropped in for
afternoon tea or encountered them on the parade, she did it so quietly
that no one noticed any significance in the action.

But I think Aunt Philippa's maternal fears would have been up in arms if
she had overheard a conversation between Jill and myself one wintry
afternoon.

Aunt Philippa had gone up to town to see Sara, who was a little ailing,
and she and Uncle Brian were to return later. Gladys and Giles were to
dine with us, and Max would probably join them. Aunt Philippa was very
fond of these impromptu entertainments, but she had not extended the
invitation to Mr. Tudor, who had called the previous day, and I had got
it into my head that Jill was a little disappointed.

She sat rather soberly by the fire that afternoon; but when Miss
Gillespie left us she took her usual seat on the rug, and her black locks
bobbed into my lap as usual, but I thought the firelight played on a very
serious face.

'What makes you so silent this afternoon, Jill?' I asked, rather
curiously; but she did not answer for a moment, only drew down my
hand, and looked at the diamonds that were flashing in the ruddy
blaze,--Giles's pledge that he had placed there; then she laid her cheek
against them, and said suddenly--

'I was only thinking, Ursie dear: I often think about things. Do you
remember that evening at Hyde Park Gate when the lamp fell on me, and
I might have been burnt to death?'

'Oh yes, Jill,' with a shudder, for I never cared to recall that scene.

'Well, I was thinking,' still dreamily. Then, with a change of manner
that startled me, 'Ursie, if a person saves another person's life, don't
you think that life ought to belong to them?--that is, if they wish it?'
with a sudden blush that rather alarmed me.

'Stop, my dear,' I returned coolly. 'This is very vague. I do not think
I quite understand. A person and another person, and them, too: it is
terribly involved. Which is which? As the children say.'

Jill gave a nervous little laugh, but her eyes gave me no doubt of her
meaning: they looked strangely dark and soft.

'Mr. Tudor saved my life,' she whispered. 'Ursie, if he wants it, that
life ought to belong to him.'

'Jill, my dear,' for I was thoroughly startled now. Things were growing
serious; but Jill gave me a little push in her childis