“What a fairy-like little girl this is!” he cried.
“You are Spring come to cheer us up.”
“I am glad,” whispered Sibyl; “but let me down, please, father, I want to kiss mother.”
Mr. Ogilvie dropped her to the ground. She ran up to her mother.
“Father says I am Spring, look at me,” she said, and she gazed into the beautiful, somewhat sullen face of her parent.
Mrs. Ogilvie had hoped that Sibyl would not notice her tears, but Sibyl, gentle as she looked, had the eyes of a hawk.
“Something is fretting my ownest mother,” she whispered under her breath, and then she took her mother’s soft hand and covered it with kisses. After kissing it, she patted it, and then she returned to her father’s side.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ogilvie knew why, but as soon as Sibyl entered the room it seemed ridiculous for them to quarrel. Mrs. Ogilvie turned with an effort, said something kind to her husband, he responded courteously, then the dinner gong sounded, and the three entered the dining-room.
It was one of the customs of the house that Sibyl, when they dined alone, should always sit with her parents during this hour. Mrs. Ogilvie objected to the plan, urging that it was very bad for the child. But Ogilvie thought otherwise, and notwithstanding all the mother’s objections the point was carried. A high chair was placed for Sibyl next her father, and she occupied it evening after evening, nibbling a biscuit from the dessert, and airing her views in a complacent way on every possible subject under the sun.
“I call Miss Winstead crosspatch now,” she said on this occasion. “She is more cranky than you think. She is, really, truly, father.”