indignant, half appealing.

Old Jeffcott surveyed her with loving admiration. There was no one
in the world to compare with Miss Sylvia in his opinion. He loved
the open English courage of her, the high, inborn pride of race.
Yet at the end of the survey he shook his head.

"There's not room for two mistresses in this establishment, Miss
Sylvia," he said wisely. "Three years to have been on your own, so
to speak, is too long. You did ought to get married, Miss Sylvia.
You'll find it's the only way."

His voice took on almost a pleading note. He knew it was possible
to go too far.

But the girl facing him was still laughing. She evidently felt no
resentment.

"You see, Jeffcott," she said, "there's only one man in the world I
could marry. And he's not ready for me yet."

Jeffcott wagged his beard again commiseratingly. "So you've never
got over it, Miss Sylvia? Your feelings is still the same--after
five years?"

"Still the same," said Sylvia. There was a momentary challenge in
her bright eyes, but it passed. "It couldn't be any different,"
she said softly. "No one else could ever come anywhere near him."

Jeffcott sighed aloud. "I know he were a nice young gentleman," he