old, but the fourteen years had
not set upon her the marks of their passage as they had upon Dewes.
Indeed, she still retained a look of youth, and all the slenderness of
her figure.

Dewes grumbled to her with a smile upon his face.

"I wonder how in the world you do it. Here am I white-haired and creased
like a dry pippin. There are you--" and he broke off. "I suppose it's the
boy who keeps you young. How is he?"

A look of anxiety troubled Mrs. Linforth's face; into her eyes there came
a glint of fear. Colonel Dewes' voice became gentle with concern.

"What's the matter, Sybil?" he said. "Is he ill?"

"No, he is quite well."

"Then what is it?"

Sybil Linforth looked down for a moment at the gravel of the garden-path.
Then, without raising her eyes, she said in a low voice:

"I am afraid."

"Ah," said Dewes, as he rubbed his chin, "I see."

It was his usual remark when he came against anything which he did not
understand.

"You must let me have him for a week or two sometimes, Sybil. Boys will
get into trouble, you know. It is their nature to. And sometimes a man
may be of use in putting things straight."

The hint of a smile glimmered about Sybil Linforth's mouth, but she
repressed it. She would not for worlds have let her friend see it, lest
he might be hurt.

"No," she replied, "Dick is not in any trouble. But--" and she struggled
for a moment with a feeling that she ought not to say what she greatly
desired to say; that speech would be disloyal. But the need to speak was
too strong within her, her heart too heavily charged with fear.

"I will tell you," she said, and, with a glance towards the open windows
of the house, she led Colonel Dewes to a corner of the garden where, upon
a grass mound, there was a garden seat. From this seat one overlooked the
garden hedge. To the left, the little village of Poynings with its grey
church and tall tapering spire, lay at the foot of the gap in the Downs
where runs the Brighton road. Behind them the Downs ran like a rampart to
right and left, their steep green sides scarred here and there by
landslips and showing the white chalk. Far away the high trees of
Chanctonbury Ring stood out against the sky.

"Dick has secrets," Sybil said, "secrets from me. It used not to be so. I
have always known how a want of sympathy makes a child hide what he feels
and thinks, and drives him in upon himself, to feed his thoughts with
imaginings and dreams. I have seen it. I