Now, Mrs. Wardour knew it was not becoming to see all this embracing
in public, and was sure besides that Lady Barbara would not like to
see the Countess hung upon in Sylvia's favourite way; so she forbade
all such demonstrations except the parting and meeting kiss. It was
a terrible grievance to Sylvia--it seemed as if her heart could not
love without her touch; but instead of training herself in a little
self-control and obedience, she thought it "cross;" and Mamma was no
sooner out of sight than her arm was around Kate's waist. Kate
struggled at first--it did not suit her honourable conscientiousness;
but then Sylvia would begin to cry at the unkindness, say Kate did
not love her, that she would not be proud if she was a countess: and
Kate gave in, liked the love--of which, poor child! she got so
little--and let Sylvia do as she pleased, but never without a sense
of disobedience and dread of being caught.

So, too, about her title. Sylvia called her darling, duck, and love,
and she called Sylvia by plenty of such names; but she had been
obliged to tell of her aunt's desire--that Katharine and Kate should
never be used.

Sylvia's ready tears fell; but the next day she came back cheerful,
with the great discovery that darling Lady Caergwent might be called
K, her initial, and the first syllable of her title. It was the
cleverest invention Sylvia had ever made; and she was vexed when Kate
demurred, honestly thinking that her aunts would like it worse than
even Kate, and that therefore she ought not to consent.

But when Sylvia coaxingly uttered, "My own dear duck of a K," and the
soft warm arm squeezed her, and the eyes would have been weeping, and