After a tap at her father's door, answered by a melodious "Good-morning, daughter!" which showed that the Rector had returned from his ministrations, Daphne proceeded to the regions above. Here upon the landing she encountered her youngest sister, who ought properly to have been dressing in the bedroom which she shared with Cilly. Instead, she was sitting resignedly outside the door upon a bundle composed of her Sabbath garments. As she was obviously posing for the excitation of sympathy, Daphne ignored her and passed into the bedroom, where the window-blind was flapping in the breeze and Cilly lay in a condition of almost total eclipse (if we except a long tawny pig-tail) under the bed-clothes.
"Cilly," inquired Daphne, "what's Nicky doing outside?"
"I kicked her out," replied a muffled voice.
"Why?"
"Well"—Cilly poked her head, tortoise-fashion, from under its covering—"she cheeked me—about"—the head retired again—"something."
"Bobby Gill, I suppose," remarked Daphne calmly.
Cilly's countenance reappeared, rosily flushed with healthy sleep and maiden modesty.
"Yes."
"Well, you must take her in again," said Daphne. "She's only playing up for a cold, sitting out there, and it will be a score for her if she can sniff the house down to-morrow."
"All right," said Cilly resignedly. "I suppose I can pay her out some other way."