“Ah, well!  Allen says it is accident that makes the hero.  Now the Monk has been as good as the hyena knight of the Jotapata, who was a mixture of Tyr, with his hand in the wolf’s mouth, and of Kunimund, when he persuaded Amala that his blood running into the river was only the sunset.”

“Don’t,” said Sydney.  “I won’t have it made nonsense of!”

“Indeed,” said Babie, almost piteously, “I meant it for the most glorious possible praise; but somehow people always seem to take me for a little hard bit of spar, a barbarian, or a baby; I wish I had a more sensible name!”

“Infanta, his princess, is what Duke always calls you,” said Sydney, drawing her fondly to nestle close to her on the bed in her fire-lit room.  “Do you know one of the thoughts I had time for in that dreadful eternity by the river, was how I wished it were you that were going to be a daughter to poor mamma.”

“Esther will make a very kind, gentle, tender one.”

“Oh, yes; but she won’t be quite what you are.  We have all been children together, and you have fitted in with us ever since that journey when we talked incessantly about Jotapata.”  Then, as Babie made no answer, Sydney gave her a squeeze, and whispered, “I know!”

“Who told you?” asked Babie, with eyes on the fire.

“Mamma, when I was crazy with Cecil for caring for a pretty face instead of real stuff.  She thought it would hurt Duke if I went on.”

“Does he care still?” said Babie, in a low voice.

“Oh, Babie, don’t you feel how much?”

“Do you know, Sydney, sometimes I can’t believe it.  I’m sure I have no right to complain of being thought a childish, unfeeling little wretch, when I recollect how hard, and cold, and impertinent I was to him three years ago.”

“It was three years ago, and we were very foolish then,” consolingly murmured the wisdom of twenty, not without recollections of her own.

“I hope it was only foolishness,” said Barbara; “but I have only now begun to understand the rights of it, only I could not bear the thoughts of seeing him again.  And now he is so kind!”

“Do you wish you had?”

“Not that.  I don’t think anything but fuss and worry would have come of it then.  I was only fifteen, and my mother could never have let it go on, and even if-—; but what I am so grieved and ashamed at is my fancying him not enough of a man for such a self-sufficient ape as I was.  And now I have seen more of the world, and know what men are, I see his generosity, and that his patient fight with ill-health to do his best and his duty, is really very great and good.”

“I wish you could tell him so.  No, I know you can’t; but you might let him feel it, for you need not be afraid of his ever asking you again.  They have had a great examination of his lungs, and there’s only part of one in any sort of order.  They say he may go on with great care unless he catches cold, or sets the disease off again, and upon that he made up his mind that it was a very good thing he had not disturbed your peace.”