lf. After a pause he said gently, "There is one thing
that makes the situation almost unbearable."

"And what is that?" she asked.

"The attitude of little Sibyl toward us both. She thinks us--Mildred,
she thinks us perfect. What will happen to the child when her eyes are
opened?"

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was Mrs. Ogilvie's
flippant remark. "But that attitude is much encouraged by you. You
make her morbid and sensitive."

"Morbid! Sibyl morbid! There never was a more open-hearted, frank,
healthy creature. Did you not hear her say at dinner that she would
not be a flabby good girl for anything? Now, I must tell you that
perhaps wrong as that speech was, it rejoiced my heart."

"And it sickened me," said Mrs. Ogilvie. "You do everything in your
power to make her eccentric. Now, I don't wish to have an eccentric
daughter. I wish to have a well brought up girl, who will be good
while she is young, speak properly, not make herself in any way
remarkable, learn her lessons, and make a successful _debut_ in
Society, all in due course."

"With a view, doubtless, to a brilliant marriage," added the husband,
bitterly.

"I am going to knock all of this nonsense out of Sibyl," was his
wife's answer, "and I mean to begin it when we get to Grayleigh
Manor."

Mrs. Ogilvie had hardly finished her words before an angry bang at the
drawing-room door told her that her husband had left her.

Ogilvie went to his smoking-room at the other end of the hall. There
he paced restlessly up and down. His temples were beating, and the
pain at his heart was growing worse.

The postman's ring was heard, and the footman, Watson, entered with a
letter.

Ogilvie had expected this letter, and he knew what its purport would
be. He only glanced at the writing, threw it on the table near, and
resumed his walk up and down.

"It is the child," he thought. "She perplexes me and she tempts me.
Never was there a sweeter decoy duck to the verge of ruin. Poor little
innocent white Angel! Her attitude toward her mother and me is
sometimes almost maddening. Mildred wants to take that little innocent
life and mould it after her own fashion. But, after all, am I any
better than Mildred? If I yield to this"--he touched the letter with
his hand--"I shall sweep in gold, and all money anxieties will be laid
to rest. Little Sib will be rich by-and-by. This is a big thing, and
if I do it I shall see my way to clearing off those debts wh