ay before he died."

Possibly he might; but the day after he died, it was no longer his
nor hers.

To go back to Sylvie in the bay-window. Rodney rode by, then wheeled
about and came back as far as the stone sidewalk before the Bank
entrance. He jumped off, hitched Red Squirrel to one of the posts
that sentineled the curbstone, and passed quietly round into the
"shady turn."

The front door was open, and boxes stood in the passage; he walked
in as far as the parlor door; then he tapped with his riding-whip
against the frame of it. Sylvie started on her perch, and began to
come down.

"Don't stop. I couldn't help coming in, seeing you as I went by,"
said Rodney.

Sylvie sat down on one of the middle steps. She would rather keep
still than exhibit herself in any further movement. Rodney ought to
have known better than go in then; if indeed he did _not_ know
better than Sylvie herself did, how very pretty and graceful she
looked, all out of regular and ordinary gear.

She had taken off her hoops, for her climbing; her soft, long black
dress fell droopingly about her figure and rested in folds around
and below her feet as she sat upon the step-ladder; one thick braid
of her sunshiny hair had dropped from the fastening which had looped
it up to her head, and hung, raveling into threads of light, down
over her shoulder and into her lap; her cheeks were bright with
exercise; her eyes, that trouble and thought had sobered lately to
dove-gray, were deep, brilliant blue again. She was excited with her
work, and flushed now with the surprise of Rodney's coming in.

"How pretty you are going to look here," said Rodney, glancing
about.

The carpet Sylvie had chosen to keep for the parlor--for though Mrs.
Argenter had feebly discussed and ostensibly dictated the list as
Sylvie wrote it down, she had really given up all choosing to her
with a reiterated, helpless, "As you please," at every question that
came up--was a small figured Brussels of a soft, shadowy water-gray,
with a border in an arabesque pattern. This had been upon a guest
chamber; the winter carpet of the drawing-room was an Axminster, and
Sylvie's ideas did not base themselves on Axminsters now, even if
they might have done so with a two thousand dollar allowance. She
only hoped her mother would not feel as if there were no drawing
room at all, but the whole house had been put up-stairs.

The window draperies were as I have said; there was a large, plain
l