When Rodney at last went out to untie his horse, Miss Euphrasia turned round to Sylvie with a question.

“Is this all quite safe and easy for you, dear?”

“Yes,” returned Sylvie, frankly, understanding her.  “I have given up all that worry.  There is money enough for a good while if we don’t mind using it.  And it is mother’s money; and Dr. Sainswell says she cannot have a long life.”

Sylvie spoke the last sentence with a break; but her voice was clear and calm,—­only tender.

“And after that?” Miss Kirkbright asked, looking kindly into her face.

“After that I shall do what I can; what other girls do, who haven’t money.  When the time comes I shall see.  All that comes hard to me—­after mother’s feebleness—­is the changing; the not staying of anything anywhere.  My life seems all broken and mixed up, Miss Kirkbright.  Nothing goes right on as if it belonged.”

“‘Lo, it is I; be not afraid,’” repeated Miss Kirkbright softly.  “When things work and change, in spite of us, we may know it is the Lord working.  That is the comfort,—­the certainty.”

The tenderness that had been in heart and voice sprang to tears in Sylvie’s eyes, at that word.

“How do you think of such things?” she said, earnestly.  “I shall never forget that now.”

Aunt Euphrasia could not help telling Rodney as they drove away toward the city, how brave and good the child was.  She could not help it, although, wise woman that she was, she refrained carefully, in most ways, from “putting things in his head.”

“I knew it before,” was Rodney’s answer.

Aunt Euphrasia concluded, at that, in her own mind, that we may be as old and as wise as we please, but in some things the young people are before us; they need very little of our “putting in heads.”

“Aunt Effie,” said Rodney, presently, “do you think I have been a very great good-for-nothing?”

“No, indeed.  Why?”

“Well, I certainly haven’t been good for much; and I’m not sure whether I could be.  I don’t know exactly what to think of myself.  I haven’t had anything to do with horses this winter; I sent Red Squirrel off into the country.  What is the reason, Auntie, that if a fellow takes to horses, they all think he is going straight to the bad?  What is there so abominable about them?”

“Nothing,” said Miss Kirkbright.  “On the contrary, everything grand and splendid,—­in type,—­you know.  Horses are powers; men are made to handle powers, and to use them; it is the very manliest instinct of a man by which he loves them.  Only, he is terribly mistaken if he stops there,—­playing with the signs.  He might as well ride a stick, or drive a chair with worsted reins, as the little ones do, all his life.”

Rodney’s face lit straight up; but for a whole mile he made no answer.  Then he said, as people do after a silence,—­