Near it, under the shade of mighty elms, was a row of almshouses, fine specimens of black-and-white work, and at the end of the rambling street stood the old well, with its canopy of wrought iron, and its ancient moss-grown steps. As she passed through the village in which from babyhood she had lived, Sylvia recognized its beauty and its peace. It seemed a place where it was always afternoon, and for that reason, to the girl who yearned for the morning, herself in the glad confident morning of life, it was intolerable. She gave herself an impatient little shake, and hurried on. Now, across the green, the beeches of Fairholme Court were in sight. In summer they almost completely screened the house, and made deep shadows in the drive. Thankfully Sylvia plunged into the shade and quickened her steps. The hall door was wide open, revealing the coolness of the white-panelled hall, and as she entered, the air was sweet with the scent of flowers. She stopped a moment to bend over a great bowl of sweet peas. “Everything is peaceful here too,” she thought. “But it’s interesting as well. I wonder why?” The appearance of Burks, immaculate as usual in snowy cap and apron, interrupted her vague musing. “Mistress is upstairs in her sitting-room. I’ll tell her you’re here, miss.” “Thank you Burks, she expects me. I’ll go up.” The maid disappeared, and Sylvia ran up the shallow stairs to the first floor, and knocked at a door on the right. “Ah! my dear child!” Anne half rose from a couch which was placed close to the window. The matting blinds outside were half drawn to keep out the glare of the sun, and the room was filled with a light soft and green, as though it had filtered through a canopy of leaves. Beneath the blinds one caught a glimpse of one of the rose-gardens. Protected by a yew hedge, roses of all colours lifted their sweet, hot faces to the sun. A grass path running down the middle of the garden ended at a white seat, in a bower of white blossom. Sylvia drew a deep breath. “I believe all the delicious scents in the world are here!” she exclaimed. “That’s why I like this room in the afternoon,” said Anne. “The sun draws all the sweetness out of the roses, and sends it up here. Take off your hat, my child. You’ve had a tiring walk, I’m afraid.” “I’d walk twenty miles in the sun to find you at the end of them,” declared Sylvia, vehemently. Anne laughed, as she got up and rang the bell for tea. Her white wrapper of cambric and lace trailed after her as she moved. Sylvia touched it with reverent fingers. “You look so sweet in these things,” she said. “I ought to have changed my gown properly to receive you. But I was reading, and too lazy to move.” Sylvia picked up the book which lay on the sofa. “French, I see by the yellow cover.” She began to turn over the leaves, and suddenly laughed.