A young girl was slowly coming down the great staircase which led to the
hall. She was in a soft black dress with a blue sash, and a knot of blue
at her throat--a childish slip of a dress, which answered to her small
rounded form, her curly head, and the hand slipping along the marble
rail. She came down silently smiling, taking each step with great
deliberation, in spite of the outbreak of half-derisive sympathy with
which she was greeted from her friends below. Her bright eyes glanced
from face to face--from the mocking inquirers immediately beneath her to
George Tressady standing by the fire.

At the moment when she reached the last step Tressady found it necessary
to put another log on a fire already piled to repletion.

Meanwhile Miss Sewell went straight towards the new member and held
out her hand.

"I am so glad, Sir George; let me congratulate you."

George put down his log, and then looked at his fingers critically.

"I am very sorry, Miss Sewell, but I am not fit to touch. I hope your
headache is better."

Miss Sewell dropped her hand meekly, shot him a glance which was not
meek, and said demurely:

"Oh! my headaches do what they're told. You see, I was determined to come
down and congratulate you."

"I see," he repeated, making her a little bow. "I hope my ailments, when