“Oh, but, Aunt Sylvia, to think of comparing for one minute ware like that with this perfectly wonderful old willow ware!” Rose had said.

“Well, have your own way,” said Sylvia, with a sigh.  “Maybe I can get used to everything all blue, when it ain’t blue, after awhile.  I know you have been around more than I have, and you ought to know.”

So the gold-and-white ware which had belonged to Sylvia’s mother decked the breakfast-table and the willow ware did duty for the rest of the time.  “I think it is very much better that you have no maid,” Rose said.  “I simply would not trust a maid to care for china like this.”

Rose took care of her room now, and very daintily.  “She’ll be real capable after awhile,” Sylvia told Henry.

“I didn’t know as she’d be contented to stay at all, we live so different from the way she’s been used to,” said Henry.

“It’s the way her mother was brought up, and the way she lived, and what’s in the blood will work out,” said Sylvia.  “Then, too, I guess she didn’t care any too much about those folks she lived with.  For my part, I think it’s the queerest thing I ever heard of that Miss Farrel, if she took such a notion to the child, enough to do so much for her, didn’t keep her herself.”

“Miss Farrel was a queer woman,” said Henry.

“I guess she wasn’t any too well balanced,” agreed Sylvia.

“What do you suppose tired Rose out so much this morning?” asked Henry.  “It isn’t such a very long ride to Alford.”

“I don’t know.  She looked like a ghost when she got home.  I’m glad she’s laying down.  I hope she’ll get a little nap.”

That was after dinner, when the house had been set in order, and Sylvia was at one front window in the cool sitting-room, with a basket of mending, and Henry at another with a library book.  Henry was very restless in these days.  He pottered about the place and was planning to get in a good hay crop, but this desultory sort of employment did not take the place of his regular routine of toil.  He missed it horribly, almost as a man is said to miss a pain of long standing.  He knew that he was better off without it, that he ought to be happier, but he knew that he was not.

For years he had said bitterly that he had no opportunity for reading and improving his mind.  Now he had opportunity, but it was too late.  He could not become as interested in a book as he had been during the few moments he had been able to snatch from his old routine of toil.  Some days it seemed to Henry that he must go back to the shop, that he could not live in this way.  He had begun to lose all interest in what he had anticipated with much pleasure—­the raising of grass on Abrahama White’s celebrated land.  He felt that he knew nothing about such work, that agriculture was not for him.  If only he could stand again at his bench in the shop, and cut leather into regular shapes, he felt that while his hands toiled involuntarily his mind could work.  Some days he fairly longed so for the old familiar odor of tanned hides, that odor which he had once thought sickened him, that he would go to the shop and stand by the open door, and inhale the warm rush of leather-scented air with keen relish.  But he never told this to Sylvia.