confided to her her aspiration concerning the pink silk
which she had found among Abrahama's possessions, Rose did not laugh
at all, but she looked at her thoughtfully.

"Don't you think it would be suitable if I had it made with some
black lace?" asked Sylvia, wistfully. "Henry thinks it is too young
for me, but--"

"Not black," Rose said, decisively. The two were up in the attic
beside the old chest of finery. Rose took out an old barege of an
ashes-of-roses color. She laid a fold of the barege over the pink
silk, then she looked radiantly at Sylvia.

"It will make a perfectly lovely gown for you if you use the pink for
a petticoat," said she, "and have the gown made of this delicious old
stuff."

"The pink for a petticoat?" gasped Sylvia.

"It is the only way," said Rose; "and you must have gray gloves, and
a bonnet of gray with just one pale-pink rose in it. Don't you
understand? Then you will harmonize with your dress. Your hair is
gray, and there is pink in your cheeks. You will be lovely in it.
There must be a very high collar and some soft creamy lace, because
there is still some yellow left in your hair."

Rose nodded delightedly at Sylvia, and the dressmaker came and made
the gown according to Rose's directions. Sylvia wore it for the first
time when she walked from church with Lucinda Hart and found Rose and
Horace sitting in the grove. After Rose had replied to Sylvia's
advice that she should go into the house, she looked at her with the
pride of proprietorship. "Doesn't she look simply lovely?" she asked
Horace.

"She certainly does," replied the young man. He really gazed
admiringly at the older woman, who made, under the glimmering shadows
of the oaks, a charming nocturne of elderly womanhood. The faint pink
on her cheeks seemed enhanced by the pink seen dimly through the
ashen shimmer of her gown; the creamy lace harmonized with her
yellow-gray hair. She was in her own way as charming as Rose in hers.

Sylvia actually blushed, and hung her head with a graceful sidewise
motion. "I'm too old to be made a fool of," said she, "and I've got a
good looking-glass." But she smiled the smile of a pretty woman
conscious of her own prettiness. Then all three laughed, although
Horace but a moment before had looked very grave, and now he was
quite white. Sylvia noticed it. "Why, what ails you, Mr. Allen?" she
said. "Don't you feel well?"

"Perfectly well."

"You look pale."

"It is the shadow of the