The car reached home; and there on the steps were her mother, and the baby shouting a lusty welcome, and Peggy and Maria dancing with glee—to say nothing of troops of servants, inside the house and out, grinning and waiting to be noticed. There was noise and excitement, so much that for several minutes Sylvia forgot her anxiety. Then everybody wanted to know if she had brought them presents; she had to stop and think what she had purchased, and what she had delayed to purchase, and what she had left behind in the rush of departure. Aunt Varina said something about the special train, and there were questions about that, and about Douglas van Tuiver, who had provided it. And still not a word about the mystery. “But, Mamma,” cried Sylvia, at last, “why did you bring me home like this?” “Hush, dear,” said “Miss Margaret.” “Not now.” And so more delay. Aunt Nannie was expected shortly—she had said she would run over to greet the returning voyagers. Sylvia scented trouble in this, and would no longer be put off, but took her mother aside. “Mamma,” she pleaded, “please tell me what’s the matter!” The other colored. “It isn’t time now, my child.” “But why _not_, Mamma?” “Wait, Sylvia, please. It is nothing——” “But, Mamma, did you send me such a telegram for nothing? Don’t you realize that I have been almost beside myself? I was sure that somebody was dead.” “Sylvia, dear,” pleaded “Miss Margaret,” “please wait—I will tell you by and by. There are people here now——” “But there’ll always be people here. Come into the library with me.” “I beg you to calm yourself——” “But, Mamma, I want to _know_! Why should I be tormented with delay? Can’t I see by the manner of all of you that something is wrong? What is it?” She dragged her mother off to the library, and shut the door. “Now, Mamma, tell me!” The other looked towards the door, as if she wished to make her escape. Something about her attitude reminded Sylvia of that “talk” she had had before her departure for school. “My dear Sylvia,” began the mother, “it is something—it is very difficult——” “For heaven’s sake, go on!” “My child, you are going to be dreadfully distressed, I fear. I wish that I could help you—oh, Sylvia, dear, I’d rather die than have to tell you this!” Sylvia clutched her hands to her bosom in sudden fear. Her mother stretched out her arms to her. “Oh, my child,” she exclaimed, “you must believe that we love you, and you must let our love help! We tried to save you from this—from this——” “Tell me!” cried the girl. “Tell me!” “Oh, my poor child!” wailed “Miss Margaret” again, “Why did you have to love him? We were sure he would turn out to be bad! We——” Sylvia sprang towards her and shook her by the arm. “Mamma, answer me! What is it?” “Miss Margaret” began searching in the bosom of her dress. She drew out a crumpled piece of paper—a telegram. Sylvia took it with trembling fingers, and spreading it out, read these words: