For three days Sylvia debated this problem; and then her mind was made up—she would do something about it. She would talk to someone. But to whom? She began with her faithful chaperone, mentioning the African fever theory, and so bringing up the subject of “bad diseases.” Just how much did Aunt Varina know about these diseases? Not very much, it appeared. Was there any way to find out about them? There was no way that Aunt Varina could conceive—it was not a subject concerning which a young girl ought to inquire. “But,” protested Sylvia, “a girl has to marry. And think of taking such chances! Suppose, for instance, that Mr. van Tuiver—” “Ssh!” Aunt Varina almost leaped at her niece in her access of horror. “Sylvia! how can you suggest such a thing?” “But, Auntie, how can I be sure?” “You surely know that the man to whom you have given your heart is a gentleman!” “Yes, Auntie, but then I knew that Beauregard Dabney was a gentleman—and so did you. And see what has happened!” “But, Sylvia dear! You don’t know that it’s _that_!” “I very nearly know it. And if Beauregard was willing to marry when he—” “But _he_ may not have known it, Sylvia!” “Well, don’t you see, Aunt Varina? That makes it all the more serious! If Mr. van Tuiver himself can be ignorant, how can I feel safe?” “But, Sylvia, what could you do?” “Why, I should think he ought to go to some one who knows—a doctor—and make sure.” The poor old lady was almost speechless with horror. What was the world coming to? “How can you say such a thing?” she exclaimed. “You, a pure girl! Who could suggest such a thing to Mr. van Tuiver?” “Couldn’t Papa do it?” “And pray, who is to suggest it to your father? Surely _you_ couldn’t!” “Why no,” said Sylvia, “perhaps not. But couldn’t Mamma?” “Your mother would _die_ first!” And Sylvia, remembering her “talk” with “Miss Margaret,” had to admit that this was probably true. But still she could not give up her idea that something ought to be done. She took a couple of days more to think, and then made up her mind to write to her Uncle Basil. The family had sent him to talk with her about Frank’s misconduct, thus apparently indicating him as her proper adviser in delicate matters. So she wrote, at some length—using most carefully veiled language, and tearing up many pages which contained words she could not endure seeing on paper. But she made her meaning clear—that she thought someone should approach her future husband on the subject. Sylvia waited the necessary period for the Bishop’s reply, and read it with trembling fingers and flaming cheeks—although its language was even more carefully veiled than her own. The substance of it was that van Tuiver was a Christian gentleman, and this must be Sylvia’s guarantee that he would not bring any harm to the woman he so deeply revered. Surely, if Sylvia respected him enough to marry him, she could trust him in a matter like this! To approach him upon it would be to offer him a deadly insult.