This bright October morning she came stooping into Sylvia's bedroom, a slight woman with a narrow bent back, brown hair smoothed neatly down on each side of a withered, dried-up face, with a patch of red on the cheek bones, and sunken brown eyes roving restlessly to right and left. She wore a black stuff dress, a satin apron with pockets and an edging of jet, and knitted mittens over her wrists--a typical old lady of the ancient type. Yet as she stood beside the bed there was a curious likeness to be observed between her face and the one on the pillow; and Sylvia recognised as much, and felt a thrill of dismay at the thought that some day she, too, would be frail and bent, and wear a cap and mittens, and have rheumatic joints, and attacks of bronchitis if by chance she was so imprudent as to go out without putting on goloshes, a woollen "crossover," and a big silk muffler beneath her mantle. To one- and-twenty it seemed an appalling prospect, and one to be shunted into the background with all possible speed. "Well, my love, and how are you this morning? Much better, I hear. A good drop in temperature," said Aunt Margaret, pecking her niece's cheek with her lips, and answering her own question without waiting for a reply, as her custom was. "Nurse tells me that you will soon be up again, and I'm sure it is time. This room needs a regular spring cleaning, and as for the new drugget on the landing--three new spots of milk this morning, to say nothing of what has gone before! If I had known you were going to be ill I would have made the old one last another year, for it is sheer waste of money buying new things to have them ruined in six months. The last one was down thirteen years, and looked very little worse than this does now!" "Father will buy you another. You must put it down as one of the expenses. He won't mind so long as I get better," said the invalid wearily; whereupon Aunt Margaret drew herself up with an air of wounded pride. "Indeed, my dear, your poor father will have enough to do to pay all the doctors and nurses without being called upon for extras. I am willing to bear my own share, though I will say my stair-carpets have had as much wear and tear in the last two months as in half a dozen years before, and that Nurse Ellen is a most careless creature, she leaves everything in a muddle! If you get up, my dear, you must wear my wadded jacket. I had a young friend--she was the cousin of Sarah Wedderburn, who lived in Stanhope Terrace, and married young Johnson of Sunderland.--You have heard me speak of the Johnsons, who were at school with your Aunt Emma?" Sylvia blinked her eyelids in a non-committal manner which might be taken either for assent or denial. She was afraid to confess ignorance of the Johnson family, lest Aunt Margaret's love of biography should take a further flight in order to recall Sarah Wedderburn's cousin to her remembrance.