of hers, and who lived in a really grand
old house, and was presumably well-to-do, and had no maids at
command, but volunteered to do the service herself, was an anomaly to
her.

"I'm afraid it will be too much trouble," she said, hesitatingly.
"Marie always unpacked my trunk, but you have no--"

"I guess if I had a girl I wouldn't set her to unpacking your trunk,"
said Sylvia, vigorously. "Where is your key?"

"In my bag," replied Rose, and she searched for the key in her
dark-blue, gold-trimmed bag. "Mrs. Wilton's maid, Anne, packed my
trunk for me," she said. "Anne packs very nicely. Mr. Wilton and her
sister, Miss Pamela Mack, did not know whether I ought to put on
mourning or not for Cousin Eliza, but they said it would be only
proper for me to wear black to the funeral. So I have a ready-made
black gown and hat in the trunk. I hardly knew how much to bring. I
did not know--" She stopped. She had intended to say--"how long I
should stay," but she was afraid.

Sylvia finished for her. "You can stay just as long as you are a mind
to," said she. "You can live here all the rest of your life, as far
as that is concerned. You are welcome. It would suit me, and it would
suit Mr. Whitman."

Rose looked at Sylvia in amazement as she knelt stiffly on the floor
unlocking her trunk. "Thank you, you are very kind," she said,
feebly. She had a slight sensation of fear at such a wealth of
hospitality offered her from a stranger, although she was a distant
relative.

"You know this was your own aunt's house and your own aunt's things,"
said Sylvia, beginning to remove articles from the trunk, "and I want
you to feel at home here--just as if you had a right here." The words
were cordial, but there was a curious effect as if she were repeating
a well-rehearsed lesson.

"Thank you," Rose said again, more feebly than before. She watched
Sylvia lifting out gingerly a fluffy white gown, which trailed over
her lean arm to the floor. "That is a tea-gown; I think I will put it
on now," said Rose. "It will be so comfortable, and you are not
formal here, are you?"

"Eh?"

"You are not formal here in East Westland, are you?"

"No," replied Sylvia, "we ain't formal. So you want to put on--this?"

"Yes, I think I will."

Sylvia laid the tea-gown on the bed, and turned to the trunk again.

"You know, of course, that Aunt Abrahama and mamma were estranged for
years before mamma died," said Rose. She sat before the white
dressi