it up and eat your supper." Sylvia drew down the white shades
carefully, then she bent over the girl. She did not touch her, but
she was quivering with maternal passion which seemed to embrace
without any physical contact. "Now, what is the matter?" she said.

"Nothing."

"What is the matter?" repeated Sylvia, insistently.

Suddenly Rose sat up. "Nothing is the matter," she said. "I am just
nervous." She made an effort to control her face. She smiled at
Sylvia with her wet eyes and swollen mouth. She resolutely dabbed at
her flushed face with a damp little ball of handkerchief.

Sylvia turned to the bureau and took a fresh handkerchief from the
drawer. She sprinkled it with some toilet water that was on the
dressing-table, and gave it to Rose. "Here is a clean handkerchief,"
she said, "and I've put some of your perfumery on it. Give me the
other."

Rose took the sweet-smelling square of linen and tried to smile
again. "I just got nervous," she said.

"Set down here in this chair," said Sylvia, "and I'll draw up the
little table, and I want you to eat your supper. I've brought up
something real nice for you."

"Thank you, Aunt Sylvia; you're a dear," said Rose, pitifully,
"but--I don't think I can eat anything." In spite of herself the
girl's face quivered again and fresh tears welled into her eyes. She
passed her scented handkerchief over them. "I am not a bit hungry,"
she said, brokenly.

Sylvia drew a large, chintz-covered chair forward. "Set right down in
this chair," she said, firmly. And Rose slid weakly from the bed and
sank into the chair. She watched, with a sort of dull gratitude,
while Sylvia spread a little table with a towel and set out the tray.

"There," said she. "Here is some cream toast and some of those new
pease, and a little chop, spring lamb, and a cup of tea. Now you just
eat every mite of it, and then I've got a saucer of strawberries and
cream for you to top off with."

Rose looked hopelessly at the dainty fare. Then she looked at Sylvia.
The impulse to tell another woman her trouble got the better of her.
If women had not other women in whom to confide, there are times when
their natures would be too much for them. "I heard some news this
morning," said she. She attempted to make her voice exceedingly light
and casual.

"What?"

"I heard about Mr. Allen's engagement."

"Engagement to who?"

"To--Lucy."

"Lucy!"

"Lucy Ayres. She seems to be a very sweet girl. She is very p