Sometimes she was struggling in the water; and then the scene changed—­she was being married in a small church, or rather it more resembled the white-washed room at the station.  Bertie was presenting her with a rose instead of a ring, while she was trying to conceal ’neath the folds of her bridal dress her feet encased in shapeless Balmorals.  Then Colonel Rolleston suddenly appeared and forbade the ceremony to proceed, while the bridegroom seemed to have changed into Fane, and Bertie, as best-man, slowly chanted—­

  “Fare thee well, thou lovely one. 
     Lovely still, but dear no more.”

“Cecil,” cried a gay voice, “are you singing in your sleep?  Get up.  It’s my birthday,” said Lola, energetically shaking her shoulder.

“Oh, Lola, is it you?  I am so glad you woke me!  Many happy returns, my child.  Have you had any presents?”

“Oh, yes, pretty good ones.  I put my stocking out last night, and it was stuffed.  A white mouse from Fred in it, too.  It ran away and up the bell-rope, and we have been catching it ever since; but,” hanging her head, “there was nothing from you, Cecil.”

“Well, Lola,” remorsefully, “it is never too late to mend.  Would you like a locket?  Fetch my dressing-case and you shall choose one.”

Cecil was too happy herself that morning not to be amiable to others, and Lola was her favourite; so she would not hurry her, and waited patiently the child’s indecision and chatter as she turned over the trinkets.

“Actually Miss Prosody gave me a dictionary; horrid of her, wasn’t it?  Perhaps she’ll ask me to say a column a morning.  I think I’ll leave it by accident on one of the islands.”

“I’ll buy it of you,” said Cecil, smiling.  “I don’t think I learned columns enough when I was a child.”

“Likely you’d do it now, though, as you are not obliged!  Well, Cecil, I think I’ll take this dear little blue one with a pearl cross on.  It is such a hot day!  What dress are you going to wear?  It must be a pretty one, because it is my birthday.”

Cecil smiled contentedly.  It was the birthday of something besides Lola—­the dawn of a new life to herself.  “Here, miss will this do?” asked she, holding up a fresh grey muslin for her sister’s inspection.

“Middling,” discontentedly, “Bluebell looks well in those cool, simple dresses; but you are never really pretty, Cecil, except in a grand velvet dress, and then you are splendid.”

“Fine feathers make fine birds,” replied the other, rather hurt.  It was not a morning on which she could bear to be told that her attractions must depend on her toilette; but, half-an-hour afterwards, as she knotted some carnation ribbon on the grey dress and in her dusky hair, a shy smile came over her face, for she saw she was beautiful with the light of love.  A warm tinge coloured the usually pale cheek, the lips had taken a deeper red, and were parted with a rare fin smile—­the velvet eyes were softer and of liquid brightness.