night; but her innocence pleaded with him to be silent. He only
said, "You forget that we all sleep at the top of our old castle.
There is no knocker to the door, and no bell that rings upstairs.
Come to the summer-house. In an hour or two more we shall see the
sun rise."

She took his arm in silence. They reached the French Garden
without another word having passed between them.

The summer-house had been designed, in harmony with the French
taste of the last century, from a classical model. It was a rough
copy in wood of The Temple of Vesta at Rome. Opening the door for
his companion, Linley paused before he followed her in. A girl
brought up by a careful mother would have understood and
appreciated his hesitation; she would have concealed any feeling
of embarrassment that might have troubled her at the moment, and
would have asked him to come back and let her know when the
rising of the sun began. Neglected by her mother, worse than
neglected by her aunt, Sydney's fearless ignorance put a question
which would have lowered the poor girl cruelly in the estimation
of a stranger. "Are you going to leave me here by myself?" she
asked. "Why don't you come in?"

Linley thought of his visit to the school, and remembered the
detestable mistress. He excused Sydney; he felt for her. She held
the door open for him. Sure of himself, he entered the
summer-house.

As a mark of respect on her part, she offered the armchair to
him: it was the one comfortable seat in the neglected place. He