Next day there came out of that room a new Sylvie or rather a dozen new Sylvies: a flighty witch of a Sylvie who tempted her blindness with rash ventures about the rooms and even out of doors, who laughed at Hugh and led him on, and drew him out to his maddest improvisations, who treated Pete to snubs and tauntings that stung like so many little whips; and again a Sylvie who was still and timid and a trifle furtive, who rarely spoke, but sat with locked hands in an attitude of desperate concentration and seemed to be planning something secret and dangerous; and then there was a haughty, touch-me-not Sylvie; and a Sylvie who mysteriously wept. But all of these Sylvies showed an impetuous, new tenderness toward Bella. “I’ve been all wrong about you, Bella,” she confessed. “I know you’re not really old and ugly and cross at all. Let me touch your face.” Bella, awkward and flushed, had no choice but to submit to the flick of the light, young fingers. “I’m learning the touch of the blind,” Sylvie boasted. “Now, listen--isn’t this right? You have thick, straight eyebrows and deep-set eyes; are they blue or brown, Bella, or bright gray?” “They’re gray,” said Pete. Hugh was watching from eyes sunk in a nervous, pallid face. He had come in from his traps in the midst of Sylvie’s experiment. “And she has a nice, straight, strong, short nose, and a mouth that she holds too tight. Loosen your mouth, Bella; it might be very sweet if you gave it a chance. And she has a sharp chin--not pretty, your chin, but--look! If you’d soften your hair, pull it over your ears and forehead--Why do you brush it back that way? It _must_ be unbecoming. And, Bella, it’s curly, or would be with a little freedom. What color is your hair?” “Gray--like my eyes,” said Bella, scarlet now, and trying to draw herself away. “Is it really gray, Pete? Tell me the truth, if you can.” “Her hair is a very light brown,” said Pete, flushed as scarlet now as Bella; “sort of a grayish brown; you wouldn’t notice any gray hairs, hardly.” “Bella, I’m sure you don’t look a day older than thirty-five. Your skin feels smooth and young. Why do you let Hugh call you an old woman? Poor Bella, I’m afraid you’ve spoiled those two boys?” Sylvie turned suddenly and imperiously upon the men, and Bella made her escape, not from the room, for she was too stirred, too full of an excited suspense, to bring herself to leave. From a far corner, near the window through which came the soft May wind, she watched them. “Now, Pete,” said Sylvie, “it’s your turn. If I’m to learn the touch of the blind, I must have practice. What can I make of you! Come here. Why don’t you come?” She stamped her foot. “My, but you are badly trained. Really, Hugh, you ought to discipline him. Wait until I am your sister-in-law.” Hugh started angrily. “Don’t joke about that!” he threatened in a harsh, sudden voice.