ick about her, frightened her when Hugh was not
there to keep her mind busy with his talk to paint pictures for her, to
command her with his magnetic presence. She stood still and strained her
eyes. She _must_ see again. If she tried hard, the red fog would surely
lift. Happiness, and her new love, they would be strong enough to dispel
the mist. There--already it was a shade lighter! She almost thought that
she could make out the brightness of the fire. She went toward it and
sat down on the bear-skin, holding out her tremulous, excited hands. And
with a sudden impulse toward confidence she called: "Pete, O Pete! Come
here a moment, please."

He came, and she beckoned to him with a gesture and an upward, vaguely
directed smile, to sit beside her. She was aware of the rigid reserve of
his body holding itself at a distance.

"Pete," she said wistfully, "what can I do to make you love me?"

He uttered a queer, sharp sound, but said nothing.

"Are you jealous?"

"No, Sylvie," he muttered.

"Oh, how I wish I could see you, Pete! I know then I'd understand
you better. Pete, try to be a little more--more human. Tell me
about yourself. Haven't you a bit of fondness for me? You see, I
want--Pete--some day perhaps I'll be your sister--"

"Then he has asked you to marry him?"

He was usually so quiet that she was startled at this new tone.

"Don't," she said. "Hush! We have only just found out. He went away
because he couldn't bear his own happiness. Pete--" She felt for him and
her hand touched his cheek. "Oh, Pete, your face is wet. You're crying."

"No, I'm not," he denied evenly. "It was melting from the roof when I
came in."

She sighed. "You are so strange, Pete. Will you let me kiss you
now--since you are going to be my big little brother?"

"I can't," he whispered. "I can't."

She laughed and crooked her arm about his neck, forcing his face down to
hers. His lips were hard and cool.

The face that Sylvie imagined a boy's face, shy and blushing, half
frightened, half cross, perhaps a trifle pleased, was so white and
patient a face in its misery that her blind tenderness seemed almost
like an intentional cruelty. It was an intensity of feeling almost
palpable, but Sylvie's mouth remained unburnt, though it removed itself
with a pathetic little twist of disappointment.

"You don't need to say anything," she said, "You've shown me how you
feel. You can't like me. You are sorry I came. And I want so dreadfully