ngs?"

And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next morning.
Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching a glimpse
of his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister, hated her.

On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard, silky
and sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and in a large cream hat
covered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough.
But in the evening, when she was going out, she asked again:

"Chubby, have you got my gloves?"

"Which?" asked William.

"My new black SUEDE."

"No."

There was a hunt. She had lost them.

"Look here, mother," said William, "that's the fourth pair she's lost
since Christmas--at five shillings a pair!"

"You only gave me TWO of them," she remonstrated.

And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst she
sat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had
left her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a
book. After supper William wanted to write a letter.

"Here is your book, Lily," said Mrs. Morel. "Would you care to go on
with it for a few minutes?"

"No, thank you," said the girl. "I will sit still."

"But it is so dull."

William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope
he said:

"Read a book! Why, she's never read a book in her life."

"Oh, go along!" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration,

"It's true, mother--she hasn't," he cried, jumping up and taking his old
position on the hearthrug. "She's never read a book in her life."

"'Er's like me," chimed in Morel. "'Er canna see what there is i' books,
ter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I."

"But you shouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel to her son.

"But it's true, mother--she CAN'T read. What did you give her?"

"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants to read
dry stuff on Sunday afternoon."

"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it."

"You are mistaken," said his mother.

All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly.

"DID you read any?" he asked.

"Yes, I did," she replied.

"How much?"

"I don't know how many pages."

"Tell me ONE THING you read."

She could not.

She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a
quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but love-making
and chatter. He was accustomed to