A Little Rebel

ll about the

strength of ver

nd feed on ou

ut the where)-comes the sound of music, soft, rhymical, and sweet. Perhaps it is from one of the rooms outside-dimly seen through the green foliage-where the lights

nd comedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale! do know their parts and speak them, albeit no stage "proper" has

diamonds gittering in the soft masses of her waving hair. A happy little girl, to judge by the soft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleam in her dark eyes. Leaning back in her sea

roken,

ds her. His regret is evidently genuine, indeed, to Hardinge the eveni

know!" telling the truth openly, yet with an evident sense of shame. "But I don't dance

s eyes on hers. It is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it? Where is any other thing

as though indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising

n't like the moments when I hate myself. We all hate ourselves sometimes,

elves now and again, or at least we think we do. It

s she, "and I couldn't bear the

you would l

eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth. "At all events I know this,"

nd as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little ashamed of herself.

ill, yet with something in his gaze that tells her he wo

r all,"-philosophically-"

ardinge, smiling. "B

tle sigh, "and talk of somethi

enjo

to his mood an

ve me there

ns, quietly and with meaning.

ng to her, bends over the ch

was it not? An endless subject. My name now? An absurd one surely. Perpe

promptly and fervently. His

o harsh, s

in itself const

o add, however

ver that," S

ike Perpetua?" her large soft

ne now very low. "If I dared say tha

with a little impatient gesture, "yo

ld you malign yourself li

n to silence by a loo

n her tone. "I am talking to you about my name. You understand that, don't you?"-the hauteur increasing. "D

from a threadbare quotation. Perhaps he is

ming," says he, s

And alas! when we think what that sweet feeling is akin to, on the highes

says he, feeling the necessity for saying s

e, rising out of her lounging position an

add

prolonged stare,

than mine. And yet," still lau

im that Perpetua is making gentle fun of her guardian, and though his conscien

d fellow," says he, throw

en down again, and trifles with the fan she has taken back from him, and fi

er all, I suppose it is hardly natural

rpetua, still smiling,

gs to the relations between them. A guardian, you

uld

so. It is tradi

almly, "I know only this, that nobody ever yet control

t is a mixture of amusement and defiance. Hardinge, gazing at

urzon was hardly meant by Nature to do the paternal to a stra

time," says he, bending over her confidentia

him and looks up. "You think I

t. Not as I should," with a

aps there is something-something a little dangero

nifestly unfair, the whole thing. Hardinge, believing in her tone, her smile, falls into the trap. Mindful of that

y that

o

le word or two, y

too, but how stra

man in all the world for your guardian? But it was a little unkind of your people, was it not, to g

says she. "I should

fessor's soul covets. No, believe me, you are

n-that I-am a

he has no room in his daily thoughts, I verily believe, for

g at him with anxious eyes, and leaning forw

nably recent!" retu

iant glance, and then suddenly grows restless.

tal curtains at the end of the conservatory checks her speech. Sir Hastings Curzon is indeed taller than most men,