llowed Jill into the room.

Jill need never have doubted her mother's love. Aunt Philippa had been
too faint and ill to follow her daughter to her room, but her face was
quite beautiful with maternal tenderness as she folded the girl in her
arms. Not even her father, who especially petted Jill, showed more
affection for her that night.

'Oh, Jocelyn, my darling, are you quite sure that you are unhurt? Miss
Gillespie says you were only frightened and a little bruised; but I
wanted to see for myself. Mr. Tudor will not let us thank him, but we
shall be grateful to him all our lives, my pet. What would your poor
father and I have done without you?'

Jill hid her face like a baby on her mother's bosom: she was crying
quietly. Her interview with Mr. Tudor had certainly upset her. Uncle
Brian put his hand in her rough locks. 'Never mind, my little girl: it is
now over; you must go to bed and forget it,'--which was certainly very
good advice. I coaxed Aunt Philippa to let her go, and promised to remain
with her until she was asleep. She was very quiet, and hardly said a word
as I helped her to undress, but as I sat down by the bedside she drew my
head down beside hers on the pillow.

'Don't think I am not grateful because I do not talk about it, Ursie
dear,' she whispered. 'I hope to be better all my life for what has
happened to-night.' But as Jill lay, with wide, solemn eyes, in the
moonlight, I wondered what thoughts were coursing through her mind. Was
she looking upon her life preserved as a life dedicated, regarding
herself as set apart for higher work and nobler uses? or was her
gratitude to her young preserver mixed with deeper and more mysterious
feelings? I could not tell, but from that night I noticed a regular
change in Jill: she became less girlish and fanciful, a new sort of
womanliness developed itself, her high spirits were tempered with
softness. Uncle Brian was right when he said a few days afterwards
'that his little girl was growing a woman.'

CHAPTER XXXIII

JACK POYNTER

My conscience felt decidedly uneasy that night: in spite of all argument
to the contrary, I could not shake off the conviction that it was my duty
to speak to Aunt Philippa. I ought to warn her of the growing intimacy
between the young people. She and Uncle Brian ought to know that Mr.
Tudor was not quite so harmless as he looked.

It made me very unhappy to act the traitor to this honest, simple young
fellow. I would rat