I felt it."

Judge Trent bit his lip in a certain grim amusement. His niece, then,
sometimes did him the honor to think about him still, even though she
had ceased to kiss his picture.

"I'm a very jealous person," declared Sylvia frankly, looking up at
him, "and vain and selfish and lazy. It's as well for you to know it."

"Indeed? So Thinkright has impressed upon you that open confession is
good for the soul, eh?"

"Oh--Thinkright!" ejaculated Sylvia, with a sudden start. "I forgot.
It's all wrong to say those things even about one's self."

Judge Trent nodded. "I've heard that contended. Somebody says that
self-condemnation is only self-conceit turned wrong side out."

"Yes." Sylvia nodded. "I suppose from any standpoint it's still talking
about yourself; but I didn't mean that. He says we mustn't say such
things because it fastens the wrong more tightly to us. Of course if we
do wrong we have to own it and repent, but,"--Sylvia heaved a great
sigh. "That's only the beginning, the easiest part. It's _doing_
differently and not in the old way that's hard,--_not_ thinking and
doing jealous, vain, selfish things." She patted the water again
thoughtfully.

"Well, give me a hand up, Sylvia. I'm an old dog, but perhaps upon
occasion I can bound into the rosy clouds to stroll with you."

Sylvia shook her head knowingly. "If you do bound up you'll find you
have struck something more substantial than clouds; and the rose-color
may appear,--yes, it _is_ there," she interrupted herself with sudden
conviction. "I've perceived it in flashes, but"--her voice sank, and
she shook her head again,--"it doesn't seem rosy all the time."

"Well," returned the lawyer, "there's a certain amount of reassurance
in the fact that you won't dare detest either me or Miss Lacey."

At the latter name color flashed over the girl's face, and she
stretched out her hand impulsively. "Oh, it's so hard to love Aunt
Martha," she cried.

The judge pursed his lips, averted his eyes, and rubbed his chin the
wrong way.

"I suppose you do," she continued dejectedly.

"We-ll," he returned, his sharp eyes resting on the pointed
firs,--"from the rosy-cloud altitude, of course, of course."

"Then you don't like her?" cried Sylvia hopefully.

"Of course I do," returned the lawyer hastily. "Most certainly. A very
fine woman; a capable woman in every way." As he spoke he scanned the
banks uneasily, as though fearing that Martha might have repented