, I know. It's simple enough, but nobody
except Sidney Meeks has ever found it out. I tell you, Henry, if a
man hasn't set the river on fire, realized his youthful dreams, and
all that, it is something to have found out something that nobody
else has, no matter how little it is, if you have got nerve enough to
keep it to yourself."

Henry fairly laughed. His long, hollow cheeks were slightly flushed.
When he got home that night he looked pleasantly at Sylvia, preparing
supper. But Sylvia did not look as radiant as she had done since her
good-fortune. She said nothing ailed her, in response to his inquiry
as to whether she felt well or not, but she continued gloomy and
taciturn, which was most unusual with her, especially of late.

"What in the world is the matter with you, Sylvia?" Henry asked. The
influence of Sidney Meeks's wine had not yet departed from him. His
cheeks were still flushed, his eyes brilliant.

Then Sylvia roused herself. "Nothing is the matter," she replied,
irritably, and immediately she became so gay that had Henry himself
been in his usual mood he would have been as much astonished as by
her depression. Sylvia began talking and laughing, relating long
stories of new discoveries which she had made in the house, planning
for Horace Allen's return.

"He's going to have that big southwest room and the little one out of
it," Sylvia said. "To-morrow you must get the bed moved into the
little one, and I'll get the big room fixed up for a study. He'll be
tickled to pieces. There's beautiful furniture in the room now. I
suppose he'll think it's beautiful. It's terrible old-fashioned. I'd
rather have a nice new set of bird's-eye maple to my taste, and a
brass bedstead, but I know he'll like this better. It's solid old
mahogany."

"Yes, he'll be sure to like it," assented Henry.

After supper, although Sylvia did not relapse into her taciturn mood,
Henry went and sat by himself on the square colonial porch on the
west side of the house. He sat gazing at the sky and the broad acres
of grass-land. Presently he heard feminine voices in the house, and
knew that two of the neighbors, Mrs. Jim Jones and Mrs. Sam Elliot,
had called to see Sylvia. He resolved that he would stay where he was
until they were gone. He loved Sylvia, but women in the aggregate
disturbed and irritated him; and for him three women were sufficient
to constitute an aggregate.

Henry sat on the fine old porch with its symmetrical pill