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 Very quietly Sheilah's mother turned and closed the door behind her, went up close to Sheilah, took the comb out of her hand, and laid it on the dressing-table. Then put her arm around her shoulders.

'What is it, dear? Tell mother,' she murmured.

Sheilah wanted to scream!

But she didn't scream. She didn't even push her mother away. It would hurt her mother dreadfully. She mustn't hurt her mother. She stood very still, as motionless as some wild animal, caught, and despairing escape. In silence she endured the soft, torturing stroking of her mother's hand on her arm, and the soft, torturing stroking of her mother's voice, as it pursued a familiar line of thought, each phrase and soft endearment of which were as familiar to Sheilah as the details of an often traveled road.

'What's troubling my little daughter? Tell mother. Between you and me there must never be any secrets. There must never be anything but sympathy and understanding.' Mrs. Miller owned half-a-dozen volumes on the modern methods of bringing up girls, and had read them all, marking the important paragraphs. 'We're such friends, you know. Come. Let's sit down, dear,' and she drew Sheilah, listless and unresisting, backwards a step or two to a rocking-chair, and sank down into it, pull-