f the bed and
wrapped the little boy in the warm lining. The comfort of the
arrangement was so great, and it implied so little necessity for
'hanging on,' that Cecil loosed his arms and lay curled up against his
friend.

She held him close, adapting her lithe slimness to the easy supporting
and enfolding of the childish figure. The little girl was absorbed in
the necklace after her strenuous hour; the boy, content for a moment,
having gained his point, just to lie at his ease; the woman rested her
cheek on his ruffled hair and looked straight before her.

As she sat there holding him, something came into her face, guiltless
though it was of any traceable change, without the verifiable movement
of a muscle, something none the less that would have minded the beholder
uneasily to search the eyes for tears, and, finding no tears there, to
feel no greater sense of reassurance.

So motionless she sat that presently the child turned up his rosy face,
and seeing the brooding look, it was plain he had the sense of being
somehow left behind. He put up his hand to her cheek, and rubbed it
softly with his own.

'I don't like you like that. Tell me about----'

'Like what?' said the lady.

'Like--I don't know.' Then, with a sudden inspiration, 'Uncle Ronald
says you're like the Sphinx. Who are they?'

'Who are who?'

'Why, the Sfinks. Have they got a boy? Is the little Sfink as old as me?
Oh, you only laugh, just like Uncle Ronald. He asked us why we liked
you, and we told him.'

'You've never told me.'

'Oh, didn't we? Well, it's because you aren't beady.'

'Beady?'

'Yes. We hate all beady ladies, don't we, Sara?'

'Yes; but it's my turn.' However, she said it half-heartedly as she
stopped drawing the shining jewels lightly through her slim fingers, and
began gently to swing the fleur-de-lys back and forth like a pendulum
that glanced bewitchingly in the light.

Miss Levering knew that the next phase would be to try it on, but for
the moment Sara had still half an ear for general conversation.

'We hate them to have hard things on their shoulders!' Cecil explained.

'On their shoulders?' Miss Levering asked.

'Here, just in the way of our heads.'

'Yes, bead-trimming on their dresses,' explained the little girl.

'Hard stuff that scratches when they hold you tight.' Cecil cuddled his
impudent round face luxuriously on the soft lace-covered shoulder of the
visitor, and laughed up in her face.

'Aunts are v