always know when she is thinking about her husband or child,
because her face gets rigid; she looks then as she used to look after
her child died, as though she didn't care what became of her and she
would just as lieve kill herself as not. I don't think she will ever
let herself love any one again. She has a horror of it. She is much more
likely to go in for ambition, or duty, or self-sacrifice."

They rode on for a while in silence, Carrington perplexed by the problem
how two harmless people such as Madeleine and he could have been made
by a beneficent Providence the sport of such cruel tortures; and Sybil
equally interested in thinking what sort of a brother-in-law Carrington
would make; on the whole, she thought she liked him better as he was.
The silence was only broken by Carrington's bringing the conversation
back to its starting-point: "Something must be done to keep your sister
out of Ratcliffe's power. I have thought about it till I am tired. Can
you make no suggestion?"

No! Sybil was helpless and dreadfully alarmed. Mr. Ratcliffe came to the
house as often as he could, and seemed to tell Madeleine everything
that was going on in politics, and ask her advice, and Madeleine did not
discourage him. "I do believe she likes it, and thinks she can do some
good by it. I don't dare speak to her about it. She thinks me a child
still, and treats me as though I were fifteen. What can I do?"

Carrington said he had thought of speaking to Mrs. Lee himself, but he
did not know what to say, and if he offended her, he might drive her
directly into Ratcliffe's arms. But Sybil thought she would not be
offended if he went to work in the right way. "She will stand more from
you than from any one else. Tell her openly that you--that you love
her," said Sybil with a burst of desperate courage; "she can't take
offence at that; and then you can say almost anything."

Carrington looked at Sybil with more admiration than he had ever
expected to feel for her, and began to think that he might do worse
than to put himself under her orders. After all, she had some practical
sense, and what was more to the point, she was handsomer than ever, as
she sat erect on her horse, the rich colour rushing up under the warm
skin, at the impropriety of her speech. "You are certainly right," said
he; "after all, I have nothing to lose. Whether she marries Ratcliffe or
not, she will never marry me, I suppose."

This speech was a cowardly attempt t