“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 a halo of feathery, gold-colored plumes, the soft, fine, supple broadcloth of her garments gleaming in the sunshine with a sheen like that of a well-kept animal’s coat.  There breathed from all her person a faint odor of grace and violets and unhurried leisure.

Sylvia clung close to her side, taking in through all her pores this lovely emanation, not noticing whether they were talking or not, not heeding the direction of their steps.  She was quite astonished to find herself on the University campus, in front of the Main Building.  Aunt Victoria had never walked so far before.  “Oh, did you want to see Father?” she asked, coming a little to herself.

Mrs. Marshall-Smith said, as if in answer, “Just sit down here and wait for me a minute, will you, Sylvia?” moving thereupon up the steps and disappearing through the wide front door.  Sylvia relapsed into her day-dreams and, motionless in a pool of sunlight, waited, quite unconscious of the passage of time.

This long reverie was at last broken by the return of Mrs. Marshall-Smith.  She was not alone, but the radiant young man who walked beside her was not her brother, and nothing could have differed more from the brilliantly hard gaze which Professor Marshall habitually bent on his sister, than the soft intentness with which young Mr. Saunders regarded the ripely beautiful woman.  The dazzled expression of his eyes was one of the remembered factors of the day for Sylvia.