broken sentences, and then it went down again.

Rodney did not answer instantly. It occurred to him all at once
what this "not saying any place" might mean.

Just as he began,--"You couldn't go until to-morrow,"--came Mrs.
Argenter's sharp cry from her room above. Amy had walked right on
into the open, lighted apartment, Mrs. Argenter following, not
daring to ask what she came and did this strange thing for, till Amy
made her sit down in her own easy chair, and taking her hands, said
gently,--

"It is a telegram from New York. Mr. Argenter--is very ill." Then
Mrs. Argenter cried out, "That's not all! I know how people bring
news! Tell me the whole." And Sylvie sprang to her feet, hearing the
quick, excited words, and leaving Rodney Sherrett standing there,
rushed up into the dressing-room.

This was the way the same sort of news came to Sylvie Argenter as
had come to the baker's daughter. Did it really make any
difference--the different surrounding of the two? The great
house--the lights--the servants--the friends; and the open bake-shop
door, the village street, the blunt, common-spoken neighbor-woman,
and the boy with the brick loaf?

These two were to be fatherless: their mothers were both to be
widows: that was all.

Did it happen strangely with the two--in this same story? Who know,
always, when they are in the same story? These things are happening