It was a fine September afternoon and Sylvia reclined pensively in a canvas hammock on Herbert Lansing\'s lawn with one or two opened letters in her hand. Bright sunshine lay upon the grass, but it was pleasantly cool in the shadow of the big copper beech. A neighboring border glowed with autumn flowers: ribands of asters, spikes of crimson gladiolus, ranks of dahlias. Across the lawn a Virginia creeper draped the house with vivid tints. The scene had nothing of the grim bareness of the western prairie of which Sylvia was languidly thinking; her surroundings shone with strong color, and beyond them a peaceful English landscape stretched away. She could look out upon heavily-massed trees, yellow fields with sheaves in them, and the winding streak of a flashing river.

Yet Sylvia was far from satisfied. The valley was getting dull; she needed distraction, and her letters suggested both the means of getting it and a difficulty. She wore black, but it had an artistic, almost coquettish, effect, and the big hat became her well, in spite of its simple trimming. Sylvia bestowed a good deal of thought upon her appearance.

After a while Mrs. Lansing came out and joined her.

"Is there any news in your letters?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Sylvia; "there\'s one from George—it\'s a little disappointing, but you can read it. As usual, he\'s laconic."

George\'s curtness was accounted for by the fact that he had been afraid of saying too much, but Sylvia carelessly handed the letter to her companion.

"After all, he shows a nice feeling," Mrs. Lansing remarked. "He seems to regret very much his inability to send you a larger check."

"So do I," said Sylvia with a petulant air.

"He points out that it has been a bad season and he has lost his crop."

"Bad seasons are common in western Canada; I\'ve met farmers who seemed to thrive on them."

"No doubt they didn\'t do so all at once."

"I dare say that\'s true," Sylvia agreed. "It\'s very likely that if I give him plenty of time, George will get everything right—he\'s one of the plodding, persistent people who generally succeed in the end—but what use will there be in that? I\'m not growing younger—I want some enjoyment now!" She spread out her hands with a gesture that appealed for sympathy. "One gets so tired of petty economy and self-denial."

"But George and Herbert arranged that you should have a sufficient allowance."

"Sufficient," said Sylvia, "is a purely relative term. So much depends upon one\'s temperament, doesn\'t it? Perhaps I am a little extravagant, and that\'s why I\'m disappointed."

"After all, you have very few necessary expenses."

Sylvia laughed.

"It\'s having only the necessary ones that makes it so dull. Now, I\'ve thought of going to stay a while with Susan Kettering; there\'s a letter from her, asking when I\'ll come."

Mrs. Lansing was a lady of strict conventional views, and she showed some disapproval.

"But you can hardly make visits yet!"

"I don\'t see why I can\'t visit Susan. She\'s a relative, and it isn\'t as if she were entertaining a number of people. She says she\'s very quiet; she has hardly asked anybody, only one or two intimate friends."

"She\'ll have three or four men down for the partridge shooting."

"After all," said Sylvia, "I can\'t make her send them away. You have once or twice had men from town here."

"Susan leads a very different life from mine," Mrs. Lansing persisted. "She\'s a little too fond of amusement, and I don\'t approve of all her friends." She paused as an idea struck her. "Is Captain Bland going there for the shooting?"

"I really can\'t tell you. Is there any reason why she shouldn\'t invite him?"

Mrs. Lansing would have preferred that Sylvia should not see so much of Bland as she was likely to do if she stayed in the same house with him, though she knew of nothing in particular to his discredit. He had served without distinction in two campaigns, he lived extravagantly, and was supposed to be something of a philanderer. Indeed, not long ago, an announcement of his engagement to a lady of station had been confidently expected; but the affair had, for some unknown reason, suddenly fallen through. Mrs. Lansing was puzzled about him. If the man were looking for a wealthy wife, why should he be attracted, as she thought he was, by Sylvia, who had practically nothing.

"I\'d really rather have you remain with us; but of course I can\'t object to your going," she said.

"I knew you would be nice about it," Sylvia exclaimed. "I must have a talk with Herbert; you said he would be home this evening."

Lansing\'s business occasionally prevented his nightly return from the nearest large town, but he arrived some hours later, and after dinner Sylvia found him in his smoking-room. He looked up with a smile when she came in, for their relations were generally pleasant. They understood each other, though this did not lead to mutual confidence or respect.

"Well?" he said.

Sylvia sat down in an easy chair, adopting, as she invariably did, a becoming pose, and handed him George\'s letter.

"He hasn\'t sent you very much," Herbert remarked.

"No," said Sylvia, "that\'s the difficulty."

"So I anticipated. You\'re not economical."

Sylvia laughed.

"I won\'t remind you of your failings. You have one virtue—you can be liberal when it suits you; and you\'re my trustee."

Lansing\'s rather fleshy, smooth-shaven face grew thoughtful, but Sylvia continued:

"I\'m going to Susan\'s, and I really need a lot of new clothes."

"For a week or two\'s visit?"

"I may, perhaps, go on somewhere else afterward."

"I wonder whether you thought it necessary to tell Muriel so?"

Sylvia sighed.

"I\'m afraid I didn\'t. I can hardly expect Muriel to quite understand or sympathize. She has you, and the flowers she\'s so fond of, and quiet friends of the kind she likes; while it\'s so different with me. Besides, I was never meant for retirement."

"That," laughed Lansing, "is very true."

"Of course," Sylvia went on; "I shall be very quiet, but there are things one really has to take part in."

"Bridge is expensive unless you\'re unusually lucky, or an excellent player," Lansing suggested. "However, it would be more to the purpose if you mentioned what is the least you could manage with."

Sylvia told him, and he knit his brows.

"Money\'s tight with me just now," he objected.

"You know it\'s only on account. George will do ever so much better next year; and I dare say, if I pressed him, he would send another remittance."

"His letter indicates that he\'d find it difficult."

"George wouldn\'t mind that. He rather likes doing things that are hard, and it\'s comforting to think that self-denial doesn\'t cost him much. I\'m thankful I have him to look after the farm."

Lansing regarded her with ironical amusement; he knew what her gratitude was worth.

"Yes," he agreed significantly, "George seldom expects anything for himself. I\'m afraid I\'m different in that respect."

Sylvia sat silent for a few moments, because she understood. If Herbert granted the favor, he would look for something in return, though she had no idea what this would be. She was conscious of a certain hesitation, but she did not allow it to influence her.

"I don\'t doubt it," she rejoined with a smile. "Can\'t you let me have a check? That will make you my creditor, but I\'m not afraid you\'ll be very exacting.

"Well," was the response, "I will see what I can do."

She went out and Lansing filled his pipe with a feeling of satisfaction. He was not running much risk in parting with the money, and Sylvia might prove useful by and by.

Sylvia left Brantholme shortly afterward and, somewhat to her annoyance, found Ethel West a guest at the house she visited. Ethel had known Dick; she was a friend of George\'s, and, no doubt, in regular communication with her brother in Canada. It was possible that she might allude to Sylvia\'s doings when she wrote; but there was some consolation in remembering that George was neither an imaginative nor a censorious person.

Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings, when she descended the broad stairway one night with a shawl upon her arm and an elegantly bound little notebook in her hand. A handsome, dark-haired man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at her side. Bland\'s glance was quick and direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners were usually characterized by a humorous boldness. Still, it was difficult to find fault with them, and Sylvia had acquiesced in his rather marked preference for her society. She was, however, studying the little book as she went down the shallow step............