ylvia," he
said, doubtfully.

"Nobody wants you to. I can get Billy Hudson to come. He can sleep in
the chamber over the kitchen. I spoke to his mother about it, and
she's tickled to pieces. She says he's real handy with horses, and
he'll come for fifteen dollars a month and his board. Rose is going
to have everything she wants."

"Does she want a horse and carriage?"

"I shouldn't think of it if I didn't s'pose she did."

"What made me ask," said Henry, "was, I'd never heard her speak of
it, and I knew she had money enough for anything if she did want it."

"Are you grudging my spending money her own aunt left on her?"

Henry looked reproachfully at his wife. "I didn't quite deserve that
from you, Sylvia," he said, slowly.

Sylvia looked at him a moment. Her face worked. Then she glanced
around to be sure nobody saw, and leaned over and touched the
shoulder of Henry's mohair coat with a little, skinny hand. "Henry,"
she said, pitifully.

"What, Sylvia?"

"You know I didn't mean anything. You've always been generous about
money matters. We 'ain't never had ill feeling about such a thing as
that. I shouldn't have spoke that way if I hadn't been all wrought
up, and--" Suddenly Sylvia thrust her hand under her white apron and
swept it up to her face. She shook convulsively.

"Now, Sylvia, of course you didn't mean a blessed thing. I've known
you were all wrought up for a long time, but I haven't known what
about. Don't take on so, Sylvia."

A little, hysterical sob came from Sylvia under the apron. Her
scissors fell from her lap and struck the stone slab on which Henry
was sitting. He picked them up. "Here are your scissors, Sylvia,"
said he. "Now don't take on so. What is it about? What have you got
on your mind? Don't you think it would do you good to tell me?"

"I wish," sobbed Sylvia, "that Abrahama White had left her property
where it belonged. I wish we'd never had a cent of it. She didn't do
right, and she laid the burden of her wrong-doing onto us when she
left us the property."

"Is that what's troubling you, Sylvia?" said Henry, slowly. "If
that's all," he continued, "why--"

But Sylvia interrupted him. She swept the apron from her face and
showed it grimly set. There was no trace of tears. "That ain't
troubling me," said she. "Nothing's troubling me. I'm kind of
nervous, that's all, and I hate to set still and see foolishness. I
don't often give way, and I 'ain't nothing to give way for. I'm j