ned nature; but those that are put on to
hide a false one. All people, true-hearted ones, too, cannot distinguish
between them; the false and the real. Next, the doctor grasped the hand
of Lionel.

"My son-in-law!" he exclaimed in a very demonstrative manner. "The last
time you and I had the pleasure of meeting, Mr. Verner, we little
anticipated that such a relationship would ensue. I rejoice to welcome
you in it, my dear sir."

"True," said Lionel, with a quiet smile. "Coming events do not always
cast their shadows before."

With Decima, with Lord Garle, with Lucy Tempest, the doctor severally
shook hands; he had a phrase of suavity for them all.

"I should not have known you," he said to the latter.

"No!" returned Lucy. "Why?"

"You have grown, Miss Tempest. Grown much."

"Then I must have been very short before," said Lucy. "I am not tall
now."

"You have grown into remarkable beauty," added the doctor.

Whether Lucy had grown into beauty, or not, she did not like being told
of it. And she did not like Dr. West. She had not been in love with him
ever, as you may recollect; but she seemed to like him now, as he stood
before her, less and less. Drawing away from him when she could do so
civilly, she went up and talked to Jan.

A little while, and they had become more settled, dispersing into
groups. The doctor, his daughter, and Lionel were sitting on a couch
apart, conversing in an undertone; the rest disposed themselves as they
would. Dr. West had accepted a cup of coffee. He kept it in his hand,
sipping it now and then, and slowly ate a biscuit.

"Mr. Jan tells me Sibylla is not very strong," he observed, addressing
both of them, but more particularly Lionel.

"Not very," replied Lionel. "The cold weather of this winter has tried
her; has given her a cough. She will be better, I hope, when it comes in
warm."

"How do you feel, my dear?" inquired the doctor, apparently looking at
his coffee-cup instead of Sibylla. "Weak here?"--touching his chest.

"Not more weak than I had used to be," she answered in a cross tone, as
if the confession that she did feel weak was not pleasant to her.
"There's nothing the matter with me, papa; only Lionel makes a fuss."

"Nay, Sibylla," interposed Lionel good-humouredly, "I leave that to you
and Jan."

"You would like to make papa believe you don't make a fuss!" she cried,
in a most resentful tone; "when you know, not two days ago, you wanted
to prevent my going