d
half-assumed youthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present
life wears away, your old mature nature will be there, so it is of no use
feigning childishness. Harold Beecham is not given to speech--action with
him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that
Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?"

Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed
and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night
before had struck home. "A hideous barbarian", he had called me, and it
seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately
that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with
redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love
of my fellows, which I so much desired.

I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:

"Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me
more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know
enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man
losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a
pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such
like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which
is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if
its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these
attributes."

"Sybylla, Sybylla," said auntie sadly, as if to herself. In the first
flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?"

"Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and,
worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of
ugliness," I replied.

"Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has
put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men's
love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not
that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and
feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept
him?"

"Intend to accept him!" I echoed. I haven't once thought of such a
possibility. I never mean to marry anyone."

"Don't you care for Harold? Just a little? Think."

"How could I care for him?"

"For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one
of the biggest and finest-looking men you co