"Mr. Allen won't marry any girl in East Westland," said Sylvia.

"Is there anybody in Boston?" asked Mrs. Jim Jones, losing her
self-possession a little.

Sylvia played her trump card. "I don't know anything--that is, I
ain't going to say anything," she replied, mysteriously.

Mrs. Jim Jones was routed for a second, but she returned to the
attack. She had not yet come to her particular errand. She felt that
now was the auspicious moment. "I felt real sorry for you when I
heard the news," said she.

Sylvia did not in the least know what she meant. Inwardly she
trembled, but she would have died before she betrayed herself. She
would not even disclose her ignorance of what the news might be. She
did not, therefore, reply in words, but gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I thought," said Mrs. Jim Jones, driven to her last gun, "that you
and Mr. Whitman had inherited enough to make you comfortable for
life, and I felt real bad to find out you hadn't."

Sylvia turned a little pale, but her gaze never flinched. She grunted
again.

"I supposed," said Mrs. Jim Jones, mouthing her words with intensest
relish, "that there wouldn't be any need for Mr. Whitman to work any
more, and when I heard he was going back to the shop, and when I saw
him turn in there this morning, I declare I did feel bad."

Then Sylvia spoke. "You needn't have felt bad," said she. "Nobody
asked you to."

Mrs. Jim Jones stared.

"Nobody asked you to," repeated Sylvia. "Nobody is feeling at all bad
here. It's true we've plenty, so Mr. Whitman don't need to lift his
finger, if he don't want to, but a man can't set down, day in and day
out, and suck his thumbs when he's been used to working all his life.
Some folks are lazy by choice, and some folks work by choice. Mr.
Whitman is one of them."

Mrs. Jim Jones felt fairly defrauded. "Then you don't feel bad?" said
she, in a crestfallen way.

"Nobody feels bad here," said Sylvia. "I guess nobody in East
Westland feels bad unless it's you, and nobody wants you to."

After Mrs. Jim Jones had gone, Sylvia went into her bedroom and sat
down in a rocking-chair by the one window. Under the window grew a
sweetbrier rose-bush. There were no roses on it, but the soothing
perfume of the leaves came into the room. Sylvia sat quite still for
a while. Then she got up and went into the sitting-room with her
mouth set hard.

When Rose had returned she had greeted her as usual, and in reply to
her question where Unc