"This is now Sir Cyril Devereux!" he said.
[CHAPTER II.]
TAKING SHAPE.
"Follow light and do the right—for man can half control his doom—
Till you find the deathless angel, seated in the vacant tomb."
TENNYSON.
JEAN TREVELYAN stood at the gate of the Rectory kitchen-garden, gazing down the lane.
She was an only child, about nine years old, of tall and slim make, with a straight back and a well-balanced head. The face was oval, but too thin for prettiness; indeed, nobody called Jean pretty. She had a pale complexion, light hair cut short like a boy's, and odd greenish-brown eyes, in sunshine yellowish like a topaz, and capable of expression to any degree. Jean wore a loose brown holland frock, and held in one hand a brown hat, round the crown of which a brown ribbon was tied. Simplicity could not further go.
"Oswald!" she cried.
No answer came.
Jean waited patiently for some seconds, a hungry look in her eyes. Then she called again:
"Oswald! Os-wald! I'm here!"