"I do believe you, and if I ever see this Sybil I will try to imitate her; but tell me, if, after her, there was among your friends one better than the rest, one almost as dear as I am, one whom you sometimes remember even now—is she living, or is she dead?"
Wilford thought of that humble grave far off in St. Mary's churchyard, the grave whose headstone bore the inscription: "Genevra Lambert, aged 22," and he answered quickly:
"If there ever was such a one, she certainly is not living. Are you satisfied?"
Katy answered that she was, but perfect confidence in her husband's affection had been terribly shaken by Juno's avowal and his partial admission of an earlier love, and Katy's heart was too full to sleep, even after she had retired. Visions of Sybil Grey, blended with visions of another whom she called the "dead fancy," flitted before her mind, as she lay awake, while hour after hour went by, until tired nature could endure no longer, and just as the great city was waking up and the rattle of wheels was beginning to be heard upon the distant pavements, she fell away to sleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
EXTRACTS FROM BELL CAMERON'S DIARY.
NEW YORK, December—.
After German philosophy and Hamilton's metaphysics, it is a great relief to have introduced into the family an entirely new element—a character the dissection of which is at once a novelty and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find myself returning to my books with increased vigor after an encounter with that simple-hearted, unsophisticated, innocent-minded creature, our sister-in-law, Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage who was one day coming to us as Wilford's wife, and of whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas! how hath our idol fallen! Tell it not in Gath, nor yet in Gotham! And still I rather like the little creature, who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death, giving her lace streamers a most uncomfortable twitch, and actually kissing father—a thing I have not done since I can remember. But, then, with the exception of Will and Jamie, the Camerons are all a set of icicles, encased in a refrigerator at that. If we were not, we should thaw out, when Katy leans on us so affectionately and looks up at us so wistfully, as if pleading for our love. Wilford does wonders; he used to be so grave, so dignified and silent, that I never supposed he would bear having a wife meet him at the door with cooing and kisses, and climbing into his lap right before us all. Juno says it makes her sick, while mother is dreadfully shocked; and even Will sometimes seems annoyed, gently shoving her aside and telling her he is tired.
After all, it is a query in my mind whether it is not better to be like Katy than like Sybil Grandon, about whom Juno was mean enough to tell her the first day of her arrival. On the whole, I would rather be Katy, but better yet, would prefer remaining myself, Bell Cameron, the happy medium between the two extremes, of art perfected and nature in its primeval state, just as it existed among the Silverton hills. From my own standpoint, I can look on and criticise, giving my journal the benefit of my criticisms and conclusions.