he country for the summer would save up to pay for
rooms in town for the winter. She couldn't bear another hot season
in that village,--nor a cold one, either. A second winter would be
just madness. What could two women do, who had never had anything to
provide before, with getting in coal, and wood, and vegetables, and
everything, and snow to be shoveled, and ashes sifted, and fires to
make, and girls going off every Monday morning?

She had just enough reason, as the case stood, for Sylvie not to be
able to answer a word. But the lease,--for another year? What should
they do with that? Would Mr. Frost take it off their hands?

If Sylvie had known who really stood behind Mr. Frost, and how!

The little poem of village living,--of home simpleness and frugal
prettiness,--of _that_, the two first lines alone had rhymed!

They had entered upon the last quarter of their first year when they
came to this united and definite conclusion. That month of May was
harsh and stormy. Nothing could be done about moving until clearer
and finer weather. So the rent was continued, of course, until the
year expired, and in June they would pack up and go away.

Sylvie had been to the doctor, first, and told him about her mother;
and he had called, in a half-friendly, half-professional way, to see
her. After his call, he had had an honest talk with Sylvie.

God sometimes shows us a glimpse of a future trouble that He holds
in his hand, to neutralize the trouble we are immediately under;
even, it may be, to turn it into a quietness and content. When
Sylvie had heard all that Doctor Sainswell had to say, she put away
her money anxiety from off her mind, at once and finally. Nothing
was any matter now, but that her mother should go where she
would,--have what she wanted.

Then she went to see Mr. Frost.

"He would write to his employer," he said; he could not give an
answer of himself.

The answer came in five days. They might relinquish the house at any
moment; they need pay the rent only for the time of their occupancy.
It would suit the owner quite as well; the place would let readily.

Sylvie was happy as she told her mother how nicely it had come out.
She might have been less so, had she seen Mr. Sherrett's face when
he read his agent's letter and replied to it in those three lines
without moving from his seat.

"I might have expected it," he said to himself. "She's a child after
all. But she began so bravely! And it can't he