" she went on after a moment,
with sudden determination, and her recent excitement made actual tears
veil her eyes this time.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"I have offended Edna."

"Surely not. How?"

"That is what I hoped you could tell me, else I wouldn't have mentioned
it. Say, truly, if you know of anything I have done."

"I certainly do not," responded Dunham, with the more emphasis that he
suddenly believed he did know--exactly. The exactness was the blow.

One of his arms was flung along the gunwale, and he frowned down at the
other brown hand while the Idea, the overwhelming, absurd, pathetic,
ridiculous Idea, paralyzed him.

Sylvia had not fallen in love at first sight. Whom had she recently
seen for the second time? For whom was she brewing the blackish potion?
Edna had suspected. That explained her undue irritation last evening.
What had Sylvia found to be lacking in her philtre? For what had she
gone to the woods this morning? What mystery was contained in the white
bag which she defended with such zeal? Dunham felt as if his brain were
softening. It was the limit of absurdity to be connecting these
semi-barbaric fantasies with this sane and charming girl. He saw how
Edna had been confounded and annoyed. Submerged by the Idea, he could
not at once lift his eyes to Sylvia, although it stirred him to believe
that those bright drops he had seen gather might be falling.

Under the sordid circumstances of her life it was quite possible that
he was the first presentable man she had ever met, and the thought that
she had set out with the primitive instincts and methods of a Romany
girl to take him by fair means or foul roused in him a wild desire to
laugh, which could be subdued only by another look at the thoughtful,
feminine face so at variance with the Idea. Her soft voice broke the
short silence.

"You know the kindest thing you could do would be to tell me if you do
know anything I have done, or even have the least suspicion of
something. You've known Edna so much longer than I have."

"Yes," responded Dunham. "But aren't you too sensitive?" he added to
gain time.

"I hope not," answered the girl with childlike simplicity. "Thinkright
says sensitiveness is only selfishness. I hope it's not that."

"Why, what has made you think Edna offended?"

Sylvia's lip trembled. "Oh, little things. Tiny things. Things a man
would probably not notice. She didn't kiss me good-night last evening."

John feare