t hold out the slightest promise of
ever stopping; there was not a patch of blue to be seen in the sky
sufficient to make the traditional seaman's jacket; several large
black snails were crawling along the garden walk as if enjoying the
bath; and the barometer in the hall, which started the day at "Set
Fair", had now sunk below "Change", and showed no signs of intending
to rise again.

Curled up in a large armchair placed in the bow window of a
well-furnished morning-room, a little girl of about eleven years old
sat peering out anxiously at the weather.

"It's far too wet!" she remarked cheerfully. "It never means to clear
to-day, and it's four o'clock now. They can't possibly come, so I
shall just settle down and enjoy myself thoroughly."

She spoke aloud to herself, a habit often indulged in by solitary
children, and, opening a copy of _Ivanhoe_, screwed herself round into
an attitude of still greater comfort, and set to work to read with
that utter disregard of outer happenings which marks the true lover of
books.

She was rather a pretty child; her features were good though the small
face was pale and thin; her hair was fair and fluffy, and she had
large hazel-grey eyes which looked so very dreamy sometimes that you
could imagine their owner was apt to forget the commonplace
surroundings of everyday life and live in a make-believe world that
was all her own. Equally oblivious of the driving rain outside and the
cosy scene within, Sylvia read on, so lost in her story that she did
not even notice when the door opened and her mother entered the room.

"Why, here you are, darling! I thought I should find you in Father's
study. I'm so sorry it's such a dreadful day for your party."

Sylvia put down her book with a slam, and dragging her mother into the
big armchair, installed herself on her knee and administered a
somewhat choking hug.

"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so glad!" she declared. "I didn't want a party,
and I've been watching the rain all the time and hoping it would go on
pouring."

"Sylvia! I thought you would be terribly disappointed. Don't you want
to see your little friends?"

"Not very much."

"But why, sweetheart?"

Sylvia squeezed her mother's hand in her own and sighed, as if she
found it rather difficult to explain herself.

"Lots of reasons," she said briefly.

"Tell me what they are."

"Why, for one thing, I've just got to the middle of _Ivanhoe_, where
Rowena is shut up in Front de Boeu