of a muss," said she. Already she began to
feel a pleasure which she had never known--the pleasure of chiding a
young creature from the heights of her own experience. She began
harshly, but before she had finished her voice had a tender cadence.

"Oh, thank you," said the girl, still bending over the wash-basin. "I
know I am careless with my things. You see, I have always been so
dependent upon my maid to straighten out everything for me. You will
do me good. You will teach me to be careful."

She turned around, wiping her face, and smiling at Sylvia, who felt
her very soul melt within her, although she still remained rigidly
prim, with her stiff apron-strings standing out at right angles. She
looked at the girl's slender arms and thin neck, which was pretty
though thin. "You don't weigh much, do you?" she said.

"A little over a hundred, I think."

"You must eat lots of fresh vegetables and eggs, and drink milk, and
get more flesh on your bones," said Sylvia, and her voice was full of
delight, although now--as always, lately--a vague uneasiness lurked
in her eyes. Rose, regarding her, thought, with a simple shrewdness
which was inborn, that her new cousin must have something on her
mind. She wondered if it was her aunt's death. "I suppose you thought
a good deal of my aunt who died," she ventured, timidly.

Sylvia regarded her with quick suspicion. She paled a little. "I
thought enough of her," she replied. "She had always lived here. We
were distant-related, and we never had any words, but I didn't see
much of her. She kept herself to herself, especially of late years.
Of course, I thought enough of her, and it makes me feel real bad
sometimes--although I own I can't help being glad to have so many
nice things--to think she had to go away and leave them."

"I know you must feel so," said Rose. "I suppose you feel sometimes
as if they weren't yours at all."

Sylvia turned so pale that Rose started. "Why, what is the matter?
Are you ill?" she cried, running to her. "Let me get some water for
you. You are so white."

Sylvia pushed her away. "There's nothing the matter with me," she
said. "Folks can't always be the same color unless they're painted."
She gave her head a shake as if to set herself right, and turned
resolutely towards Rose's trunk. "Can you unpack, yourself, or do you
want me to help you?" she asked.

Rose eyed the trunk helplessly, then she looked doubtfully at Sylvia.
A woman who was a relative