Mrs. Middleton’s charity was great.  She hid the smile she could not repress.  “Well,” she said, “perhaps I am not fair to Percival, but, Godfrey, you are not quite just to Horace.”

He turned upon her:  “Unjust to Horace? I?”

She knew what he meant.  He had shown Horace signal favor, far above his cousin, yet what she had said was true.  Perhaps some of the injustice had been in this very favor.  “Here are our truants!” she exclaimed.  She and her brother had not talked so confidentially for years, but the moment her eyes fell on Sissy her thoughts went back to the point at which Mr. Thorne had disturbed them:  “My dearest Sissy, I am so afraid you will catch cold.”

“It can’t be done to-night,” said Percival.  “Won’t you come and try?” But the old lady shook her head.

“All right, auntie! we won’t stop out,” said Sissy; and a moment later she made her appearance in the drawing-room with her hands full of roses, which she tossed carelessly on the table.  Mr. Thorne had picked up his paper, and stood turning the pages and pretending to read, but she pushed it aside to put a rosebud in his coat.

“Roses are more fit for you young people than for an old fellow like me,” he said, “Why don’t you give one to Percival?”

She looked over her shoulder at young Thorne.  “Do you want one?” she said.

He smiled, with a slight movement of his head and his dark eyes fixed on hers.

“Then, why didn’t you pick one when we were out?  Now, weren’t you foolish?  Well, never mind.  What color?”

“Choose for him,” said Mr. Thorne.

Sissy hesitated, looking from Percival’s face to a bud of deepest crimson. 
Then, throwing it down, “No, you shall have yellow,” she exclaimed:  “Laura
Falconer’s complexion is something like yours, and she always wears yellow. 
As soon as one yellow dress is worn out she gets another.”

“She is a most remarkable young woman if she waits till the first one is worn out,” said Percival.

“Am I to put your rose in or not?” Sissy demanded.

He stepped forward with a smile, and looked darkly handsome as he stood there with Sissy putting the yellow rose in his coat and glancing archly up at him.

Mr. Thorne from behind his Saturday Review watched the girl who might, perhaps, hold his favorite’s future in her hands.  “Does he care for her?” he wondered.  If he did, the old man felt that he would gladly have knelt to entreat her, “Be good to my poor Percival.”  But did Percival want her to be good to him?  Godfrey Thorne was altogether in the dark about his grandson’s wishes in the matter.  He tried hard not to think that he was in the dark about every wish or hope of Percival’s, and he looked up eagerly when the latter said something about going out the next day.  He remembered which horse Percival liked, he assented to everything, but he watched him all the time with