we know and feel their influence, and that many men fear it as something
strange and contrary to the common order of things, a living reproach and
protest against all that is base and earthly and badly human.

Most people would have said first of Sybil Brandon that she was cold, and
many would have added that she was beautiful. Ill-natured people sometimes
said she was deathly. No one ever said she was pretty. Vancouver's
description--lily-white, all eyes and hair--certainly struck the principal
facts of her appearance, for her skin was whiter than is commonly natural,
her eyes were very deep and large and blue, and her soft brown hair seemed
to be almost a burden to her from its great quantity. She was dressed
entirely in black, and being rather tall and very slight of figure, the
dress somewhat exaggerated the ethereal look that was natural to her. She
seemed cold, and spread out her delicate hands to the bright flame of the
blazing wood-fire. Mrs. Wyndham and Pocock Vancouver looked at her in
silence for a moment. Then Mrs. Wyndham rose with a cup of tea in her
hand, and crossed to the other side of the fireplace where Sybil was
sitting and offered it to her.

"Poor Sybil, you are so cold. Drink some tea." The elder woman sat down by
the young girl, and lightly kissed her cheek. "You must not be sad,
darling," she whispered sympathetically.

"I am not sad at all, really," answered Miss Brandon aloud, quite
naturally, but pressing Mrs. Wyndham's hand a little, as though in
acknowledgment of her sympathy.

"No one can be sad in Boston," said Vancouver, putting in a word. "Our
city is altogether too wildly gay." He laughed a little.