bred as his sister. One
would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between
them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She
mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure
that the tableau was interesting.

"You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the
lad with a good-natured grumble.

"Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a
dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him.

James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "I want you
to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don't suppose I shall ever
see this horrid London again. I am sure I don't want to."

"My son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up
a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She
felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would
have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.

"Why not, Mother? I mean it."

"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a
position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in
the Colonies--nothing that I would call society--so when you have made
your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."

"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don't want to know anything about
that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the
stage. I hate it."

"Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you
really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you
were going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to Tom Hardy, who
gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for
smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last
afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park."

"I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the
park."

"Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.

He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don't be
too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her
singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.

He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to
the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked.

"Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For
some months past she had felt il