Whereat my heart went out to her, and I prayed mentally that her father might have a broad warm shoulder to pillow her head and a ready ear to hear her confidences, for the perfectly rounded neck and shell ear of the mother playing cards in the next room would never give harbour or heed, I knew. Sylvia was as pleased as a child at the idea of coming down to spend the night, stipulating that if it was still cold she should be allowed to make taffy and put it on the shed to harden, saying, with a pout: "At school and college there was always somewhere that I could mess with sticky things and cook, but here it is impossible, though mamma says I shall have an outdoor tea-room at the Oaklands all to myself, and give chafing-dish parties, for they are quite the thing. 'The thing' is my boogy man, I'm afraid. If what you wish to do, no matter how silly, agrees with it, it's all right, but if it doesn't, all the wisdom of Solomon won't prevail against those two words." Man No. 2 at this juncture came in and presented a florist's box and envelope in a tray, saying, _sotto voce,_ as he did so, "Shall I hopen it and arrange them, miss, or will you wear them?" for, as the result of lavish entertaining and many hothouses as well as friends, flowers showered upon the Latham house at all hours, and both library and hall were almost too fragrant. Sylvia glanced at the note, saying, "I will wear them," to the man, handed the card to Miss Lavinia, her face flushing with pleasure, while No. 2 extracted a modest bunch of California violets from the paper, handed them to his young mistress, and retired with the box on his tray. The name on the card was Horace Bradford, the pencilled address University Club, on the reverse were the words, "May I give myself the pleasure of calling to-morrow night? These February violets are in remembrance of a May ducking. Am in town for two days only on college business." "The day that he rowed us on the Avon and reached too far up the bank to pick you wild violets and the boat shot ahead and he fell into the water," laughed Miss Lavinia, as pleased as Sylvia at the recollection. "But I am going to you to-morrow evening," said Sylvia, ruefully at thought of missing a friend, but quite heart-free, as Miss Lavinia saw. "Let me take the card, and I will ask him to dinner also," said the dear, comfortable, prim soul, who was still bubbling over with love of youth, "and Barbara shall ask her adopted uncle Cortright to keep the number even." Time, it seems, had flown rapidly. She had barely slipped the card in her case when the door opened and No. 3 approached solemnly and whispered, "Mrs. Latham requests, Miss, as how you will come and pour tea, likewise bringing the ladies, if _still here_!" How those words _still here_ smote the silence.