"What, my daughter-at this time of night! You know I cannot afford a servant; you know all about me, and yet you desert me for hours and hours. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? You have been out of doors all this long time and supper ready for you on the table! Oatmeal and skimmed milk-an excellent meal; a princess could not desire better. I am keeping it for your breakfast. You shall have no supper now; you deserve to go to bed supper-less, and you shall. What a disgraceful mess your dress is in!"

"There has been snow, and it is wintry and cold outside," replied Sylvia; "and I am not hungry. Good night, father."

"You think to get over me like that! You have no pity for me; you are a most heartless girl. You shall not stir from here until you tell me where you have been."

"Then I will tell you, father. I know you'll be angry, but I cannot help it. There is such a thing as dying for want of-oh, not for want of food, and not for want of clothes-for want of pleasure, fun, life, the joy of being alive. I did go, and I am not ashamed."

"Where?" asked the man.

"I went to Wynford Castle. I have spent the evening there. Now, you may be as angry as you please, but you shall not scold me; no, not a word until the morning."

With a sudden movement the girl flitted past the angry man. The next instant she had reached her room. She opened the door, shut it behind her, and locked herself in. When she was quite alone she pulled off her hat, and got with frantic speed out of her wet jacket; then she clasped her hands high above her head.

"How am I to bear it! What have I done that I should be so miserable?"

she thought.

She flung herself across the bare, uninviting bed, and lay there for some time sobbing heavily. All the joy and animation had left her young frame; all the gaiety had departed from her. But presently her pa.s.sionate sobs came to an end; she undressed and got into bed.

She was bitterly-most bitterly-cold, and it was a long time before the meager clothes which covered her brought any degree of warmth to her frame. But by-and-by she did doze off into a troubled slumber. In her sleep she dreamt of her mother-her mother who was dead.

She awoke presently, and opening her eyes in the midst of the darkness, the thought of her dream came back to her. She remembered a certain night in her life when she had been awakened suddenly to say good-by to her mother. The mother had asked the father to leave the child alone with her.

"You will be always good to him, Sylvia?" she said then. "You will humor him and be patient. I hand my work on to you. It was too much for me, and G.o.d is taking me away, but I pa.s.s it on to you. If you promise to take the burden and carry it, and not to fail, I shall die happy. Will you, Sylvia-will you?"

"What am I to do, mother?" asked the child. She was a girl of fourteen then.

"This," said the mother: "do not leave him whatever happens."

"Do you mean it, mother? He may go away from here; he may go into the country; he may-do anything. He may become worse-not better. Am I never to be educated? Am I never to be happy? Do you mean it?"

The dying woman looked solemnly at the eager child.

"I mean it," she said; "and you must promise me that you will not leave him whatever happens."

"Then I promise you, mother," Sylvia had said.

CHAPTER IX.-BREAKFAST IN BED.

The day of Evelyn's freedom came to an end. No remark had been made with regard to her extraordinary dress; no comments when she declined to accompany her own special guest to her bedroom. She was allowed to have her own sweet will. She went up-stairs very late, and, on the whole, not discontented. She had enjoyed her chat with some of the strange children who had arrived that afternoon. Lady Frances had scarcely looked at her.

That fact did not worry her in the least. She had said good-night in quite a patronizing tone to both her aunt and uncle, she did not trouble even to seek for Audrey, and went up to her room singing gaily to herself. She had a fine, strong contralto voice, and she had not the slightest idea of keeping it in suppression. She sang the chorus of a common-place song which had been popular on the ranch. Lady Frances quite shuddered as she heard her. Presently Evelyn reached her own room, where Jasper was awaiting her. Jasper knew her young mistress thoroughly. She had not the slightest idea of putting herself out too much with regard to Evelyn, but at the same time she knew that Evelyn would be very cross and disagreeable if she had not her comforts; accordingly, the fire burned clear and bright, and there were preparations for the young girl's favorite meal of chocolate and biscuits already going on.

"Oh dear!" said Evelyn, "I am tired; but we have had quite a good time.

Of course when the Castle belongs to me I shall always keep it packed with company. There is no fun in a big place like this unless you have heaps of guests. Aunt Frances was quite harmless to-night."

"Harmless!" cried Jasper.

"Yes; that is the word. She took no notice of me at all. I do not mind that. Of course she is jealous, poor thing! And perhaps I can scarcely wonder. But if she leaves me alone I will leave her alone."

"You are conceited, Evelyn," said Jasper. "How could that grand and stately lady be jealous of a little girl like yourself?"

"I think she is, all the same," replied Evelyn. "And, by the way, Jasper, I do not care for that tone of yours. Why do you call me a little girl and speak as though you had no respect for me?"

"I love you too well to respect you, darling," replied Jasper.

"Love me too well! But I thought people never loved others unless they respected them."

"Yes, but they do," answered Jasper, with a short laugh. "How should I love you if that was not the case?"

Evelyn grew red and a puzzled expression flitted across her face.

"I should like my chocolate," she said, sinking into a chair by the fire. "Make it for me, please."

Jasper did so without any comment. It was long past midnight; the little clock on the mantelpiece pointed with its jeweled hands to twenty minutes to one.

"I shall not get up early," said Evelyn. "Aunt Frances was annoyed at my not being down this morning, but she will have to bear it. You will get me a very nice breakfast, won't you, dear old Jasper? When I wake you will have things very cozy, won't you, Jas?"

"Yes, darling; I'll do what I can. By the way, Evelyn, you ought not to have let that poor Miss Sylvia come up here and go off by herself."

Evelyn pouted.

"I won't be scolded," she said. "You forget your place, Jasper. If you go on like this it might really be best for you to go."

"Oh, I meant nothing," said Jasper, in some alarm; "only it did seem-you will forgive my saying it-not too kind."

"I like Sylvia," said Evelyn; "she is handsome and she says funny things. I mean to see a good deal more of her. Now I am sleepy, so you may help me to get into bed."

The spoilt child slept in unconscious bliss, and the next morning, awaking late, desired Jasper to fetch her breakfast. Jasper rang the bell. After a time a servant appeared.

"Will you send Miss Wynford's breakfast up immediately?" said Jasper.

The girl, a neat-looking housemaid, withdrew. She tapped at the door again in a few minutes.

"If you please, Miss Jasper," she said, "Lady Frances's orders are that Miss Evelyn is to get up to breakfast."

Jasper, with a slight smirk on her face, went into Evelyn's bedroom to retail this message. Evelyn's face turned the color of chalk with intense anger.

"Impertinent woman!" she murmured. "Go down immediately yourself, Jasper, and bring me up some breakfast. Go-do you hear? I will not be ruled by Lady Frances."

Jasper very unwillingly went down-stairs. She returned in about ten minutes to inform Evelyn that it was quite useless, that Lady Frances had given most positive orders, and that there was not a servant in the house who would dare to disobey her.

"But you would dare," said the angry child. "Why did you not go into the larder and fetch the things yourself?"

"The cook took care of that, Miss Evelyn; the larder door was locked."

"Oh, dear me!" said Evelyn; "and I am so hungry." She began to cry.