Sylvia's mental resiliency was not of such sturdily elastic stuff. She
stood still, thinking of Pauline crying, and crying--and started aside
when her aunt came out again on the porch.

"I don't find any one in the house, Sylvia dear," said Mrs.
Marshall-Smith quietly. Sylvia looked up into the clear, blue eyes, so
like her father's, and felt the usual magic spell lay hold on her. The
horrid impression made by Arnold's story dimmed and faded. Arnold was
always getting things twisted. She came up closer to her aunt's
side and took the soft, smooth fingers between her two little hard,
muscular hands. In her relief, she had forgotten to answer. Mrs.
Marshall-Smith said again, "Where are your parents, dear?"

"Oh," said Sylvia. "Oh yes--why, Father's at the University at a
committee meeting and Mother's out by the garden putting up tomatoes.
Judy and Arnold are helping her."

Mrs. Marshall-Smith hesitated, looked about her restlessly, and
finally raised her parasol, of a gold-colored silk, a lighter tone,
but the same shade as her rich plain broadcloth costume of tan. "Shall
we take a little walk, my dear?" she suggested. "I don't feel like
sitting still just now--nor"--she looked down into Sylvia's eyes--"nor
yet like canning tomatoes,"

That walk, the last one taken with Aunt Victoria, became one of
Sylvia's memories, although she never had a vivid recollection of what
they saw during their slow ramble. It was only Aunt Victoria whom the
little girl remembered--Aunt Victoria moving like a goddess over their
rough paths and under the changing glory of the autumn leaves. She
herself was a brighter glory, with her shining blond hair crowned by