logetically.

The girl laughed. "I don't like the sound of it," she said. "Is it some
sort of reformatory?"

"It is not," replied Miss Martha warmly. "That is a very good idea of
your uncle's. I hadn't heard of it. It is a very generous and proper
arrangement," with growing conviction. "Boston is dreadfully
overcrowded, and you'd have probably done better in Springfield,
whatever it's like; but I'll stay with you now,"--Miss Martha began
taking off her gloves nervously,--"and help you pack up and take you
over to the Association, and see you settled. The superintendent can no
doubt help you to find something to do, and perhaps everything will be
all right, after all."

Sylvia Lacey stretched out her hand. "Put those gloves on again, Aunt
Martha. Your duty to me is done. You and Mr. Dunham can go home now."

Miss Martha's eyes snapped behind her glasses. "What do you mean? What
are you going to do, then?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "Any one of half a dozen
things. Get married, probably."

Miss Martha stared. "Are you engaged all this time and we worrying
ourselves like this?"

"No, but a man, an actor, wants me to marry him. He believes I would do
well on the stage."

"Sylvia Lacey, you _mustn't_ marry an actor. You mustn't consider such
a thing!" The speaker sprang to her feet and took a step forward.

"I haven't until now,"--Sylvia's white cheeks gave the lie to her
nonchalant tone,--"but father said he believed Nat would be good to me.
I thought it very strange at the time, but he seemed much more certain
that Nat would be kind than that you and Uncle Calvin would."

"Sylvia, you mustn't be willful. You're a young girl. You must let your
uncle and me think for you. I am going to remain with you until I see
you moved. You can't stay in this hotel alone, not a day." Miss Martha
glanced about as if she expected to see some of her brother's
disreputable friends leap up from behind the stuffy old armchairs.

"Go at once, please," returned the girl. "Won't you take her?" suddenly
turning to Dunham appealingly. "I'm very tired."

He did not need to be convinced of it. The white face showed the
nervous strain. He believed the short curls meant some recent illness.
He wished himself a thousand miles away, and took a final grip on the
hat he was holding.

"We're unwilling to leave you in such uncertainty," he said lamely.

Sylvia's eyes rested on his.

"Tell Uncle Calvin"--she paused, for he