"Why, Sylvia, you know how I hate to deny you anything, but I don't see how I can spare her! Here it is hayin'-time, the busiest time of the year, an' Austin an' Peter both gone. I haven't a word to say against them young fellows that Thomas has fetched home from college to help while our boys are gone, they're well-spoken, obligin' chaps as I ever see, but the work don't go the same as it do when your own folks is doin'

it, just the same. Besides, Sally's not here to help like she's always been before, summers, an' it makes a pile of difference, I can tell you.

Molly can play the piano somethin' wonderful, an' Katherine can spout poetry to beat anything I ever heard, but Edith can get out a whole week's washin' while either one of 'em is a-wonderin' where she's goin'

to get the hot water to do it with, an' she's a real good cook! I never see a girl of her years more capable, if I do say so, an' she always looks as neat an' pretty as a new pin, whatever she's doin', too. Why don't you come over to us, if you're lonely? We'd all admire to have you!

There, we've got that row cleaned out real good--s'posin' we tackle the candytuft, now, if you feel like it."

Sylvia would gladly have offered to pay for a competent "hired girl," but she did not dare to, for fear of displeasing Austin. So she wrote to Uncle Mat to postpone his prospective visit, to the great disappointment of them both, and filled her tiny house with young friends instead, urging Edith to spend as much time helping her "amuse" them as she could, to the latter's great delight. Unfortunately the girl and one of the boys whom she had invited were already so much interested in each other that they had eyes for no one else, and the other fellow was a quiet, studious chap, who vastly preferred reading aloud to Sylvia to canoeing with Edith. The girl was somewhat piqued by this lack of appreciation, and quickly deserted Sylvia's guests for the more lively charms of Hugh Elliott's red motor and Jack Weston's spruce runabout. Mr.

and Mrs. Gray saw no harm in their pet's escapades, but, on the contrary, secretly rejoiced that the humble Peter was at least temporarily removed and other and richer suitors occupying the foreground. They were far from being worldly people, but two of their daughters having already married poor men, they, having had more than their own fair share of drudgery, could not help hoping that this pretty b.u.t.terfly might be spared the coa.r.s.er labors of life.

Sylvia longed to write Austin all about it, but she could not bring herself to spoil his trip by speaking slightingly, and perhaps unjustly, of his favorite sister's conduct. As she had rather feared, the short trip originally planned proved so instructive and delightful that it was lengthened, first by a few days and then by a fortnight, so that one week in August was already gone before he returned. He came back in holiday spirits, bubbling over with enthusiasm about his trip, full of new plans and arrangements. His enthusiasm was contagious, and he would talk of nothing and allow her to talk of nothing except themselves.

"My, but it's good to be back! I don't see how I ever stayed away so long."

"You didn't seem to have much difficulty--every time you wrote it was to say you'd be gone a little longer. I suppose some of those New York farmers have pretty daughters?"

"You'd better be careful, or I'll box your ears! What mischief have _you_ been up to? I've heard rumors about some bookish chap, who read Keats's sonnets, and sighed at the moon. You see I'm informed. I'll take care how I leave you again."

"You had better. I won't promise to wait for you so patiently next time."

"Don't talk to me about patient waiting! Sylvia, is it really, honestly true I've only got three more weeks of it?"

"It's really, honestly true. Good-night, darling, you _must_ go home."

"And _you've_ only got three weeks more of being able to say that! I suppose I must obey--but remember, _you'll_ have to promise to obey pretty soon."

"I'll be glad to. Austin--"

"Yes, dear--Sylvia, I think your cheeks are softer than ever--

"I don't think Edith looks very well, do you?"

"Why, I thought she never was so pretty! But now you speak of it she _does_ seem a little f.a.gged--not fresh, the way you always are! Too much gadding, I'm afraid."

"I'm afraid so. Couldn't you--?"

"My dear girl, leave all that to Peter--I've got _my_ hands full, keeping _you_ in order. Sylvia, there's one thing this trip has convinced me we've got to have, right away, and that's more motors. We've got the land, we've got the buildings, and we've got the stock, but we simply must stop wasting time and grain on so many horses--it's terribly out of date, to say nothing else against it. We need a touring-car for the family, and a runabout for you and me,--do sell that great ark of yours, and get something you can learn to run yourself, and that won't use half the gasoline,--and a tractor to plough with, and a truck to take the cream to the creamery."

"Well, I suppose you'll let me give these various things for Christmas presents, won't you? You're so awfully afraid that I'll contribute the least little bit to the success of the farm that I hardly dare ask. But I could bestow the tractor on Thomas, the truck on your father, and the touring-car on the girls, and certainly we'll need the runabout for all-day trips on Sundays--after the first of September."

"All right. I'll concede the motors as your share. Now, what will you give me for a reward for being so docile?"

She watched him down the path with a heart overflowing with happiness.

Twice he turned back to wave his hand to her, then disappeared, whistling into the darkness. She knelt beside her bed for a long time that night, and finally fell into a deep, quiet sleep, her hand clasping the little star that hung about her throat.

Three hours later she was abruptly awakened, and sat up, confused and startled, to find Austin leaning over her, shaking her gently, and calling her name in a low, troubled voice.

"What is it? What has happened?" she murmured drowsily, reaching instinctively for the dressing-gown which lay at the foot of the bed.

Austin had already begun to wrap it around her.

"Forgive me, sweetheart, for disturbing you--and for coming in like this. I tried the telephone, and called you over and over again outside your window--you must have been awfully sound asleep. I was at my wits' end, and couldn't think of anything to do but this--are you very angry with me?"

"No, no--why did you need me?"

"Oh, Sylvia, it's Edith! She's terribly sick, and she keeps begging for you so that I just _had_ to come and get you! She was all right at supper-time--it's so sudden and violent that--"

Sylvia had slipped out of bed as if hardly conscious that he was beside her. "Go out on the porch and wait for me," she commanded breathlessly; "you've got the motor, haven't you? I won't be but a minute."

She was, indeed, scarcely longer than that. They were almost instantly speeding down the road together, while she asked, "Have you sent for the doctor?"

"Yes, but there isn't any there yet. Dr. Wells was off on a confinement case, and we've had to telephone to Wallacetown--she was perfectly determined not to have one, anyway. Oh, Sylvia, what can it be? And why should she want you so?"

"I don't know yet, dear."

"Do you suppose she's going to die?"

"No, I'm afraid--I mean I don't think she is. Why didn't I take better care of her? Austin, can't you drive any faster?"

As they reached the house, she broke away from him, and ran swiftly up the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Gray were both standing, white and helpless with terror, beside their daughter's bed. She was lying quite still when Sylvia entered, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain shook her like a leaf, and she flung her hands above her head, groaning between her clenched teeth. Sylvia bent over her and took her in her arms.

"My dear little sister," she said.

CHAPTER XVIII

When the long, hideous night was over, and Edith lay, very white and still, her wide, frightened eyes never leaving Sylvia's face, the doctor, gathering up his belongings, touched the latter lightly on the arm.

"She'll have to have constant care for several days, perfect quiet for two weeks at least. But if I send for a nurse--"

"I know. I'm sure I can do everything necessary for her. I've had some experience with sickness before."

The doctor nodded, a look of relief and satisfaction pa.s.sing over his face. "I see that you have. Get her to drink this. She must have some sleep at once."

But when Sylvia, left alone with her, held the gla.s.s to Edith's lips, she shrank back in terror.

"No, no, no! I don't want to go to sleep--I mustn't--I shall dream!"

"Dear child, you won't--and if you do, I shall be right here beside you, holding your hand like this, and you can feel it, and know that, after all, dreams are slight things."

"You promise me?"

"Indeed I do."

"Oh, Sylvia, you're so brave--you told the doctor you'd taken care of some one that was sick before--who was it?"

It was Sylvia's turn to shudder, but she controlled it quickly, and spoke very quietly.

"I was married for two years to a man who finally died of delirium tremens. No paid nurse--would have stayed with him--through certain times. I can't tell you about it, dear, and I'm trying hard to forget it--you won't ask me about it again, will you?"