u had all you wanted here?" she asked.

"Oh, Aunt Sylvia, you know I have. You've been so good to me."

"I had got my plans made to put in a bath-room," said Sylvia. "I've
got the carpenters engaged, and the plumber. They are going to begin
next week."

"You've been as good as can be to me, Aunt Sylvia."

"And I'm on the lookout for a carriage and horse you can drive, and
I've been planning to have some parties for you. I've tried to think
of everything that would make you feel happy and contented and at
home."

"Oh, you have; I know you have, dear Aunt Sylvia," murmured Rose.

"I have done all I knew how," repeated Sylvia, in a stony fashion.
She put the girl gently away and turned to go, but Rose caught her
arm.

"Aunt Sylvia, you aren't going like this!" she cried. "I was afraid
you wouldn't like it, though I don't know why. It does seem that
Horace is all you could ask, if I were your very own daughter."

"You are like my very own daughter," said Sylvia, stiffly.

"Then why don't you like Horace?"

"I never said anything against him."

"Then why do you look so?"

Sylvia stood silent.

"You won't go without kissing me, anyway, will you?" sobbed Rose.

This time she really wept with genuine hurt and bewilderment.

Sylvia bent and touched her thin, very cold lips to Rose's. "Now go
to bed," she said, and moved away, and was out of the room in spite
of Rose's piteous cry to her to come back.

Henry, after he had entered the house and discovered that Sylvia was
up-stairs with Rose, sat down to his evening paper. He tried to read,
but could not get further than the glaring headlines about a
kidnapping case. He was listening always for Sylvia's step on the
stair.

At last he heard it. He turned the paper, with a loud rustle, to the
continuation of the kidnapping case as she entered the room. He did
not even look up. He appeared to be absorbed in the paper.

Sylvia closed the hall door behind her noiselessly; then she crossed
the room and closed the door leading into the dining-room. Henry
watched her with furtive eyes. He was horribly dismayed without
knowing why. When Sylvia had the room completely closed she came
close to him. She extended her right hand, and he saw that it
contained a little sheaf of yellowed newspaper clippings pinned
together.

"Henry Whitman," said she.

"Sylvia, you are as white as a sheet. What on earth ails you?"

"Do you know what has happened?"

Henry's eyes fell be