Sylvia--Sylvia Garrison."

"And that's a very nice name," said Mrs. Owen, looking at her fixedly
with her fine gray eyes. "You're the first Sylvia I have ever known. I'm
just plain Sally!" Then she seized Sylvia's hands and drew her close and
kissed her.

As Sylvia had brought but one white gown, she decided that the blue
serge skirt and linen shirt-waist in which she had traveled would do for
luncheon. She put on a fresh collar and knotted a black scarf under it
and went downstairs.

She ran down quickly, to have the meeting with the strange niece over as
quickly as possible. Mrs. Owen was not in sight, and her grandfather had
not returned from town; but as Sylvia paused a moment at the door of the
spacious high-ceilinged drawing-room she saw a golden head bent over a
music rack by the piano. Sylvia stood on the threshold an instant, shy
and uncertain as to how she should make herself known. The sun flooding
the windows glinted on the bright hair of the girl at the piano; she was
very fair, and her features were clear-cut and regular. There was no
sound in the room but the crisp rustle of the leaves of music as the
girl tossed them about. Then as she flung aside the last sheet with an
exclamation of disappointment, Sylvia made herself known.

"I'm Sylvia Garrison," she said, advancing.

They gravely inspected each other for a moment; then Marian put out her
hand.

"I'm Marian Bassett. Aunt Sally told me you were coming."

Marian seated herself with the greatest composure and Sylvia noted her
white lawn gown and white half-shoes, and the bow of white ribbon at the
back of her head. Sylvia, in her blue serge, black ribbons, and high
shoes, felt the superiority of this radiant being. Marian took charge of
the conversation.

"I suppose you like to visit; I love it. I've visited a lot, and I'm
always coming to Aunt Sally's. I'm in Miss Waring's School, here in this
city, so I come to spend Sundays with Aunt Sally very often. Mama is
always coming to town to see how I'm getting on. She's terribly
ambitious for me, but I hate school, and I simply _cannot_ learn French.
Miss Waring is terribly severe; she says it's merely a lack of
application in my case; that I _could_ learn but won't. When mama comes
she takes me to luncheon at the Whitcomb and sometimes to the matinee.
We saw John Drew last winter: he's simply perfect--so refined and
gentlemanly; and I've seen Julia Marlowe twice; she's my favorite
actress. Mama s