Argenter asked one day, when
she had walked over to the shop with a small basket, in which to put
brown bread, little fine rolls for her mother, and some sugar
cookies. Ray and Dot were both there. Dot was sitting with her
sewing, putting in finishing stitches, button-holes, and the like.
She was behind the counter, ready to mind the calls. Ray had come in
to see what was wanting of fresh supplies from the bakehouse.

"I've been expecting you ever since we moved into the Turn. Ain't I
to have any neighbors?"

The little court-way behind the Bank had come to be called the Turn;
Sylvie took the name as she found it; as it named itself to her also
in the first place, before she knew that others called it so. She
liked it; it was one of those names that tell just what a thing is;
that have made English nomenclature of places, in the old, original
land above all, so quaint and full of pleasant home expression.

Dot looked up in surprise. It had never entered her head that the
Argenters would expect them to call; and truly, the Argenters, in
the plural, were very far indeed from any such imagination.

Ray took it more quietly and coolly.

"We are always very busy, since my father has been sick," she said.
"We hardly go to see our old friends. But if you would like it, we
will try and come, some day."

"I want you to," said Sylvie. "But I don't want you to _call_,
though I said so. I want you to come right in and _see_ me. I never
could bear calls, and I don't mean ever to begin with them again."

The Highfords had come and "called," in the carriage, with pearl-kid
gloves and long-tailed carriage dresses; called in such a way that
Sylvie knew they would probably never call again. It was a last
shading off of the old acquaintance; a decent remembrance of them in
their low estate, just not to be snobbish on the vulgar face of it;
a visit that had sent her mother to bed with a mortified and
exasperated headache, and taken away her slight appetite for the
delicate little "tea" that Sylvie brought up to her on a tray.

The Ingrahams saw she really meant it, and they came in one evening
at first, when they were walking by, and Sylvie sat alone, with a
book, in the twilight, on the corner piazza. Her mother had been
there; her easy-chair stood beside the open window, but she had gone
in and lain down upon the sofa. Mrs. Argenter had drooped,
physically, ever since the grief and change. It depends upon what
one's life is, an