“Why not?”

“I should be frightened.  I can’t bear people to be angry with me.  I should run away, or do something silly.”

“Then I hope you won’t be tried,” said Percival.

She shook her pretty head:  “People always talk about casting gold into the furnace, and it’s coming out only the brighter and better.  Things are not good for much if you would rather they were not tried.”

Her hand was on the window-frame as she spoke, and the young man touched a ring she wore:  “Gold is tried in the furnace—­yes, but not your pearls.  Besides, I’m not so sure that you would fail if you were put to the test.”

She smiled, well pleased, yet unconvinced.

“You think,” he went on, “that people who did great deeds did them without an effort—­were always ready, like a bow always strung?  No, no, Sissy:  they felt very weak sometimes.  Isn’t there anything in the world you think you could die for?  Even if you say ‘No’ now, there may be something one of these days.”

The twilight hid the soft glow which overspread her face.  “Anything in the world you could die for?” Anything?  Anybody?  Her blood flowed in a strong, courageous current as her heart made answer, “Yes—­for one.”

But she did not speak, and after a moment her companion changed the subject.  “That’s a pretty ring,” he said.

Sissy started from her reverie:  “Horace gave it me.  Adieu, Mr. Percival Thorne:  I’m going to look at my roses.”

“Thank you.  Yes, I shall be delighted to come.”  And Percival jumped out.  “Don’t look at me as if I’d said something foolish.  Isn’t that the right way to answer your kind invitation?”

“Invitation!  What next?” demanded Sissy with pretty scorn.  And the pair went off together along the terrace and into the fragrant dusk.

A minute later it occurred to Mrs. Middleton to fear that Sissy might take cold, and she went to the window to look after her.  But, as no one was to be seen, she turned away and encountered her brother, who had been watching them too.  “Do they care for each other?” he asked abruptly.

“How can I tell?” Mrs. Middleton replied.  “Of course she is fond of him in a way, but I can’t help fancying sometimes that Horace—­”

“Horace!” Mr. Thorne’s smile was singularly bland.  “Oh, indeed!  Horace—­a charming arrangement!  Pray how many more times is Mr. Horace to supplant that poor boy?” His soft voice changed suddenly, as one might draw a sword from its sheath.  “Horace had better not cross Percival’s path, or he will have to deal with me.  Is he not content?  What next must he have?”

Mrs. Middleton paused.  She could have answered him.  There was an obvious reply, but it was too crushing to be used, and Mr. Thorne braved it accordingly.

“Better leave your grandsons alone, Godfrey,” she said at last, “if you’ll take my advice; which I don’t think you ever did yet.  You’ll only make mischief.  And there is Sissy to be considered.  Let the child choose for herself.”