sweetness, a natural melody in its modulation.

'The way in which you speak of your father interests me,' said Wilfrid,
leaning his chin upon his hand, and gazing at her freely. 'You seem so
united with him in sympathy.'

She did not turn her eyes to him, but her face gathered brightness.

'In sympathy, yes,' she replied, speaking now with more readiness. 'Our
tastes often differ, but we are always at one in feeling. We have been
companions ever since I can remember.'

'Is your mother living?'

'Yes.'

Something in the tone of the brief affirmative kept Wilfrid from further
questioning.

'I wonder,' he said, 'what you think of the relations existing between
myself and my father. We are excellent friends, don't you think?
Strange--one doesn't think much about such things till some occasion
brings them forward. Whether there is deep sympathy between us, I
couldn't say. Certainly there are many subjects on which I should not
dream of speaking to him unless necessity arose; partly, I suppose, that
is male reserve, and partly English reserve. If novels are to be
trusted, French parents and children speak together with much more
freedom; on the whole that must be better.'

She made no remark.