"Oh, don't ask me, and don't tell them. They're talking about music, and they won't miss me for a little while." Sylvia fled upstairs for her treasured pail, and down again, smiling and sparkling, into Jenny's domain. The good-natured girl made her welcome, and although Miss Lacey wished to come too, and see what her niece would be at, Sylvia laughingly closed the door upon her. "I was never more astonished," soliloquized Miss Martha, amused and rather pleased. She moved outdoors, and took a rocking-chair at the opposite end of the piazza from John and Edna. The latter finally interrupted her own remarks to glance at the figure sitting in the dusk. "Come over here, Sylvia. What makes you so exclusive?" "It isn't Sylvia," replied Miss Martha's voice. "Where is she, then?" Edna started to leave the hammock. "Don't disturb yourself. She's happy." "Examining her berries probably," remarked John. "That's just what she's doing," returned Miss Lacey, laughing. "What do you mean?" cried Edna. "Has that girl gone daffy?" "Now don't get up, Edna," commanded Miss Martha. "Sylvia is cooking." "Cooking!" Edna rose from the hammock. "At this time of night? Why didn't you ask Jenny"-- "She wouldn't let me. I don't know what it is, any more than you do; but it was something she was bound to do herself, and I had to let her. What takes me is the injustice I've done that child. I never dreamed she had such domestic tendencies. I supposed she was all unpractical and artistic like her poor father, and to think here she has some recipe she's so crazy about she can't wait till morning." Miss Lacey's voice trailed away in a gratified laugh. "Perhaps it's something Mrs. Lem has taught her." "Let's go and spy upon her," suggested John. The two stole softly around the house on the grass to the open kitchen window, where they shamelessly remained to gaze and listen. They saw Sylvia leaning over the stove, carefully stirring something with a large spoon. Jenny turned from the sink. "Will ye be havin' another stick, Miss Sylvia?" "There's going to be a stick in it. Whoop!" whispered John. "Only in the stove," replied Edna, as the fuel was added. "Cheer up, it's something good, anyway." "What are ye after makin', Miss Sylvia?" asked the cook. The girl pursed her smiling lips: "A philtre, Jenny. Did you ever hear of one?" "Sure I have. We use them all the time in Boston. Mr. Derwent won't lave me even cook with water that ain't filtered. Sure, we don't need one here, and annyway, how could ye make one from berries?" "This is a different kind of philtre. I'm brewing something that I hope will make somebody happy. A girl, Jenny. Me. This is to make me happy. That is, if it works like a charm,--and I think it will. I think it will." Sylvia repeated the words joyously as she watched and stirred. "A love charm, is it!" ejaculated Jenny. Her mouth fell open, and she paused, staring, dish-towel in hand.