"What's the matter, you poor little chap?"
Cyril burst into tears. "Oh, I did want to get over," he sobbed, "and I couldn't; and Jean—Jean—"
"What about Jean?"
"Jean says—says—it's so cowardly—and she won't—won't love me!"
"What's cowardly?"
"I can't get across the stones."
"Turns you giddy, eh?"
"Yes," sobbed Cyril, from the depths of his heart.
"Never mind. I wouldn't cry. When I was a little fellow like you, I was just the same—every inch as bad; and you see I don't mine the stones now."
Cyril was wonderfully comforted. Tears lessened, and he could manage to look up into the other's face—a young face, frank and kindly; with a mouth of exquisite curves, sweet, strong, and smiling; with a broad forehead above the grey eyes, which were full, half of mockery, half of tenderness, a touch of sadness running through both.