walk,
the pallor in her cheeks, the distress and shame in her expression.

"Sit down," he said; and she obeyed him reluctantly, seating herself over
against him. She gazed at the table-cloth with that mutinous look upon
her face which took away from her her womanhood and gave to her the
aspect of a pretty but resentful child. Garratt Skinner for the life of
him could not but smile at her.

"Well, Sylvia, you have beaten me. You fought your fight well, and I bear
you no malice," he said, lightly. "But," and his voice became serious
again, "you sit in judgment on me."

Sylvia raised her eyes quickly.

"No!" she cried.

"I think so," he persisted. "I don't blame you. Only I should like you to
bear this in mind; that you have in your own life a reason to go gently
in your judgments of other people."

Chayne stepped forward, as though he would interfere, but Sylvia laid her
hand upon his arm and checked him.

"I don't think you understand, Hilary," she said, quickly. She turned to
her father and looked straight at him with an eager interest.

"I wonder whether we are both thinking of the same thing," she said,
curiously.

"Perhaps," replied her father. "All your life you have dreamed of
running water."

And Sylvia nodded her head.

"Yes, yes," she said, with a peculiar intentness.

"The dream is part of you, part of your life. For all you know, it may
have modified your character."

"Yes," said Sylvia.

"It is a part of you of which you could not rid yourself if you tried.
When you are asleep, this dream comes to you. It is as much a part of you
as a limb."

And again Sylvia answered: "Yes."

"Well, you are not responsible for it," and Sylvia leaned forward.

"Ah!" she said. She had been wondering whether it was to this point that
he was coming.

"You know now why you hear it, why it's part of you. You were born to the
sound of running water in that old house in Dorsetshire. Before you were
born, in the daytime and in the stillness of the night your mother heard
it week after week. Perhaps even when she was asleep the sound rippled
through her dreams. Thus you came by it. It was born in you."

"Yes," she answered, following his argument step by step very carefully,
but without a sign of the perplexity which was evident in Hilary Chayne.
Chayne stood a little aloof, looking from Sylvia's face to the face of
her father, in doubt whither the talk was leading. Sylvia, on the other
hand, recognized each