Henry looked back at the house.  There were two lighted windows on the second floor.  “Rose is going to bed,” he said.  “That light’s in her room.”

“She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in, poor little thing,” said Meeks.  In his voice was an odd mixture of tenderness, admiration, and regret.  “You’ve got your wife,” he said, “but I wonder if you know how lonely an old fellow like me feels sometimes, when he thinks of how he’s lived and what he’s missed.  To think of a girl having a face like that for a man.  Good Lord!”

“You might have got married if you’d wanted to,” said Henry.

“Of course; could get married now if I wanted to, but that isn’t the question.  I don’t know what I’m such a d—­n fool as to tell you for, only it’s like ancient history, and no harm that I can see for either the living or the dead.  There was a time when, if Abrahama White had worn a face like that for me—­well—­Poor girl, she got her heart turned the way it wasn’t meant to go.  She had a mean, lonesome life of it.  Sometimes now, when I go into that house where she lived so many years, I declare, the weight of the burden she had to bear seems to be on me.  It was a cruel life for a woman, and here’s your wife wanting that girl to live the same way.”

“Wouldn’t she have you after Susy got married?” asked Henry.  The words sounded blunt, but his voice was tender.

“Didn’t ask her.  I don’t think so.  She wasn’t that kind of woman.  It was what she wanted or nothing with her, always was.  Guess that was why I felt the way I did about her.”

“She was a handsome girl.”

“Handsome!  This girl you’ve got is pretty enough, but there never was such a beauty as Abrahama.  Sometimes when I call her face back before my eyes, I declare it sounds like women’s nonsense, but I wonder if I haven’t done better losing such a woman as that than marrying any other.”

“She was handsome,” Henry said again, in his tone of futile, wondering sympathy.

When Henry had left Sidney and returned home, he found, to his horror, that Sylvia was not down-stairs.  “She’s up there with the girl, and Rose ’ll tell her,” he thought, uneasily.  “She can’t keep it to herself if she’s alone with another woman.”

He was right.  Sylvia had followed the girl to her room.  She was still angry with Rose, and filled with a vague suspicion, but she adored her.  She was hungry for the pleasure of unfastening her gown, of seeing the last of her for the day.  When she entered she found Rose seated beside the window.  The lamp was not lit.

Sylvia stood in the doorway looking into the shadowy room.  “Are you here?” she asked.  She meant her voice to be harsh, but it rang sweet with tenderness.

“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.”

“Where are you?”

“Over here beside the window.”

“What on earth are you setting in the dark for?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d sit down here a few minutes.  I was going to light the lamp soon.”