"Sweet child!" murmured Sybella. Then, with a start, "Yes, I do see! Surely! He is like poor Olave—strangely like. Hers was such uncommon beauty. Dear little boy. He must be a nephew—but Olave had no brothers or sisters. You don't mean—it can't be that he—"
"Cyril, kiss your aunt."
Cyril crossed the short space between, and flung his arms around Miss Devereux with a short sob, as if his heart were full.
"My dear boy! You sweet child!" exclaimed Sybella, embracing him with effusion. "Then this is our precious Cyril, and Theodore has come home. Why has he stayed behind? Is he not well? Tired with travelling? Cyril, my pet, don't cry. Oh, pray don't. Is he hungry? What can I get for him? Some seed-cake? Dear little boy! Why, Cyril, who would ever guess you to be more than seven years old? Such a tiny mite!"
The child pressed his face into her shoulder, and General Villiers spoke slowly—
"Your brother was breaking down fast. The doctors said our only hope was to get him away at once. It made no difference to me, for I was waiting to come with him. He would not let me telegraph word of our changed plans, for his wish was to surprise you."
"And—" Sybella said.
"For a day or two on board, he seemed to rally, but it did not last."
"And—" repeated Sybella.
The General bent his head.