ng-table watching Sylvia, and the lovely turn of her neck and
her blond head were reflected in the glass above the vase of flowers.

"Yes, I knew something about it."

"I never did know much, except that Aunt Abrahama did not approve of
mamma's marriage, and we never saw her nor heard of her. Wasn't it
strange," she went on, confidentially, "how soon after poor mamma's
death all my money came to me?"

Sylvia turned on her. "Have you got money?" said she. "I thought you
were poor."

"Yes, I think I have a great deal of money. I don't know how much. My
lawyers take care of it, and there is a trustee, who is very kind. He
is a lawyer, too. He was a friend of poor Cousin Eliza's. His name is
McAllister. He lives in Chicago, but he comes to New York quite
often. He is quite an old gentleman, but very nice indeed. Oh yes, I
have plenty of money. I always have had ever since mamma died--at
least, since a short time after. But we were very poor, I think,
after papa died. I think we must have been. I was only a little girl
when mamma died, but I seem to remember living in a very little,
shabby place in New York--very little and shabby--and I seem to
remember a great deal of noise. Sometimes I wonder if we could have
lived beside the elevated road. It does not seem possible that we
could have been as poor as that, but sometimes I do wonder. And I
seem to remember a close smell about our rooms, and that they were
very hot, and I remember when poor mamma died, although I was so
young. I remember a great many people, who seemed very kind, came in,
and after that I was in a place with a good many other little girls.
I suppose it was a school. And then--" Rose stopped and turned white,
and a look of horror came over her face.

"What then?" asked Sylvia. "Don't you feel well, child?"

"Yes, I feel well--as well as I ever feel when I almost remember
something terrible and never quite do. Oh, I hope I never shall quite
remember. I think I should die if I did."

Sylvia stared at her. Rose's face was fairly convulsed. Sylvia rose
and hesitated a moment, then she stepped close to the girl and pulled
the fair head to her lean shoulder. "Don't; you mustn't take on so,"
she said. "Don't try to remember anything if it makes you feel like
that. You'll be down sick."

"I am trying not to remember, and always the awful dread lest I shall
comes over me," sobbed the girl. "Mr. McAllister says not to try to
remember, too, but I am so horrib