rs, she
found her mother frying pancakes for her in the kitchen blue with
smoke from the hot fat. She was touched, almost shocked by this
strange lapse from the tradition of self-help of the house, and said
with rough self-accusation: "My goodness! The idea of _your_ waiting
on _me_!" She snatched away the handle of the frying-pan and turned
the cakes deftly. Then, on a sudden impulse, she spoke to her mother,
standing by the sink. "I came back because I found I didn't like Jerry
Fiske as much as I thought I did. I found I didn't like him at all,"
she said, her eyes on the frying-pan.

At this announcement her mother's face showed pale, and for an instant
tremulous through the smoke. She did not speak until Sylvia lifted
the cakes from the pan and piled them on a plate. At this signal of
departure into the dining-room she commented, "Well, I won't pretend
that I'm not very glad."

Sylvia flushed a little and looked towards her silently. She had a
partial, momentary vision of what the past two months must have been
to her mother. The tears stood in her eyes. "Say, Mother dear," she
said in a quavering voice that tried to be light, "why don't you eat
some of these cakes to keep me company? It's 'most ten. You must have
had breakfast three hours ago. It'd be fun! I can't begin to eat all
these."

"Well, I don't care if I do," answered Mrs. Marshall. Sylvia laughed
at the turn of her phrase and went into the dining-room. Mrs. Marshall
followed in a moment with a cup of hot chocolate and buttered toast.
Sylvia pulled her down and kissed her. "You'd prescribe hot chocolate
for anything from getting religion to a broken leg!" she said,
laughing. Her voice shook and her laugh ended in a half-sob.

"No--oh no!" returned her mother quaintly. "Sometimes hot milk is
better. Here, where is my share of those cakes?" She helped herself,
went around the table, and sat down. "Cousin Parnelia was here
this morning," she went on. "Poor old idiot, she was certain that
planchette would tell who it was that stole our chickens. I told her
to go ahead--but planchette wouldn't write. Cousin Parnelia laid it to
the blighting atmosphere of skepticism of this house."

Sylvia laughed again. Alone in the quiet house with her mother,
refreshed by sleep, aroused by her bath, safe, sheltered, secure, she
tried desperately not to think of the events of the day before. But in
spite of herself they came back to her in jagged flashes--above all,
the