mpertinence of childhood, and then,
shaking her head, inquired: "Who is he, papa?"

"Mr. Frere, darling. Don't you remember Mr. Frere, who used to play ball
with you on board the ship, and who was so kind to you when you were
getting well? For shame, Sylvia!"

There was in the chiding accents such an undertone of tenderness, that
the reproof fell harmless.

"I remember you," said Sylvia, tossing her head; "but you were nicer
then than you are now. I don't like you at all."

"You don't remember me," said Frere, a little disconcerted, and
affecting to be intensely at his ease. "I am sure you don't. What is my
name?"

"Lieutenant Frere. You knocked down a prisoner who picked up my ball. I
don't like you."

"You're a forward young lady, upon my word!" said Frere, with a great
laugh. "Ha! ha! so I did, begad, I recollect now. What a memory you've
got!"

"He's here now, isn't he, papa?" went on Sylvia, regardless of
interruption. "Rufus Dawes is his name, and he's always in trouble. Poor
fellow, I'm sorry for him. Danny says he's queer in his mind."

"And who's Danny?" asked Frere, with another laugh.

"The cook," replied Vickers. "An old man I took out of hospital. Sylvia,
you talk too much with the prisoners. I have forbidden you once or twice
before."

"But Danny is not a prisoner, papa--he's a cook," says Sylvia, nothing
abashed, "and he's a clever man. He told me all about London, where the
Lord Mayor rides in a glass coach, and all the work is done by free men.
He says you never hear chains there. I should like to see London, papa!"

"So would Mr. Danny, I have no doubt," said Frere.

"No--he didn't say that. But he wants to see his old mother, he says.
Fancy Danny's mother! What an ugly old woman she must be! He says he'll
see her in Heaven. Will he, papa?"

"I hope so, my dear."

"Papa!"

"Yes."

"Will Danny wear his yellow jacket in Heaven, or go as a free man?"

Frere burst into a roar at this.

"You're an impertinent fellow, sir!" cried Sylvia, her bright eyes
flashing. "How dare you laugh at me? If I was papa, I'd give you half an
hour at the triangles. Oh, you impertinent man!" and, crimson with rage,
the spoilt little beauty ran out of the room. Vickers looked grave, but
Frere was constrained to get up to laugh at his ease.

"Good! 'Pon honour, that's good! The little vixen!--Half an hour at the
triangles! Ha-ha! ha, ha, ha!"

"She is a strange child," said Vickers, "and talks strangel