nd void, into the flaunting sunlight, the roaring still
in her ears, the paper still in her hands, the scrawled words still
venomous upon it, she saw that not a moment could have passed, for
Felix and her aunt were unfolding letters of their own, their eyes
beginning to run quickly over the pages.

Sylvia stood quite still, feeling immeasurably and bitterly alone.
She said to herself: "Mother is very sick. I must go home at once.
Judith." But she did not know what she said. She felt only an impulse
to run wildly away from something that gave her intolerable pain.

Mrs. Marshall-Smith turned over a page of her letter, smiling to
herself, and glanced up at her niece. Her smile was smitten from her
lips. Sylvia had a fantastic vision of her own aspect from the gaping
face of horror with which her aunt for an instant reflected it. She
had never before seen Aunt Victoria with an unprepared and discomposed
countenance. It was another feature of the nightmare.

For suddenly everything resolved itself into a bad dream,--her aunt
crying out, Helene screaming and running to her, Felix snatching the
telegram from her and reading it aloud--it seemed to Sylvia that she
had heard nothing for years but those words, "Mother very sick. Come
home at once. Judith." She heard them over and over after his voice
was silent. Through their constant echoing roar in her ears she heard
but dimly the babel of talk that arose--Aunt Victoria saying that she
could not of course leave at once because no passage had been engaged,
Helene foolishly offering smelling-salts, Felix darting off to get a
carriage to take them to the hotel where she could be out of the crowd
and they could lay their plans--"Oh, my poor dear!--but you may have
more reassuring news tomorrow, you know," said Mrs. Marshall-Smith
soothingly.

The girl faced her aunt outraged. She thought she cried out angrily,
"tomorrow!" but she did not break her silence. She was so torn by the
storm within her that she had no breath for recriminations. She turned
and ran rapidly some distance away to the edge of the wharf, where
some small rowboats hung bobbing, their owners sprawled on the seats,
smoking cigarettes and chattering. Sylvia addressed the one nearest
her in a strong, imperious voice. "I want you to take me out to that
steamer," she said, pointing out to the liner in the harbor.

The man looked up at her blankly, his laughing, impertinent brown face
sobered at once by the sight