at in a corner of the west veranda at the hotel, knitting
something white and fluffy, or pink and fluffy, or pale blue and
fluffy--always fluffy, at least, and always dainty. Shawls and scarfs
and hoods the things were, I believe. When she finished one she gave
it to some girl and began another. Every girl at Harbour Light that
summer wore some distracting thing that had been fashioned by Miss
Sylvia's slim, tireless, white fingers.

She was old, with that beautiful, serene old age which is as beautiful
in its way as youth. Her girlhood and womanhood must have been very
lovely to have ripened into such a beauty of sixty years. It was a
surprise to everyone who heard her called _Miss_ Sylvia. She looked so
like a woman who ought to have stalwart, grown sons and dimpled little
grandchildren.

For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her
corner alone. There was always a circle of young people around her;
old folks and middle-aged people would have liked to join it, but Miss
Sylvia, while she was gracious to all, let it be distinctly understood
that her sympathies were with youth. She sat among the boys and girls,
young men and maidens, like a fine white queen. Her dress was always
the same and somewhat old-fashioned, but nothing else would have
suited her half so well; she wore a lace cap on her snowy hair and a
heliotrope shawl over her black silk shoulders. She knitted
continually and talked a good deal, but listened more. We sat around
her at all hours of the day and told her everything.

When you were first introduced to her you called her Miss
Stanleymain. Her endurance of that was limited to twenty-four hours.
Then she begged you to call her Miss Sylvia, and as Miss Sylvia you
spoke and thought of her forevermore.

Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favourite. She told us so
frankly and let it be understood that when I was talking to her and
her heliotrope shawl was allowed to slip under one arm it was a sign
that we were not to be interrupted. I was as vain of her favour as any
lovelorn suitor whose lady had honoured him, not knowing, as I came to
know later, the reason for it.

Although Miss Sylvia had an unlimited capacity for receiving
confidences, she never gave any. We were all sure that there must be
some romance in her life, but our efforts to discover it were
unsuccessful. Miss Sylvia parried tentative questions so skilfully
that we knew she had something to defend. But one