evening late in September, when a chilly wind was blowing up
from the northeast and moaning about the eaves of the house,
as if the burden of its lay were "harvest is ended and summer
is gone." The Old Lady had been listening to it, as she
plaited a little basket of sweet grass for Sylvia. She had
walked all the way to Avonlea sand-hills for it the day
before, and she was very tired. And her heart was sad. This
summer, which had so enriched her life, was almost over; and
she knew that Sylvia Gray talked of leaving Spencervale at the
end of October. The Old Lady's heart felt like very lead
within her at the thought, and she almost welcomed the advent
of the minister's wife as a distraction, although she was
desperately afraid that the minister's wife had called to ask
for a subscription for the new vestry carpet, and the Old Lady
simply could not afford to give one cent.

But the minister's wife had merely dropped in on her way home
from the Spencers' and she did not make any embarrassing
requests. Instead, she talked about Sylvia Gray, and her words
fell on the Old Lady's ears like separate pearl notes of
unutterably sweet music. The minister's wife had nothing but
praise for Sylvia--she was so sweet and beautiful and winning.

"And with SUCH a voice," said the minister's wife
enthusiastically, adding with a sigh, "It's such a shame she
can't have it properly trained. She would certainly become a
great singer--competent critics have told her so. But she is
so poor she doesn't think she can ever possibly manage it--
unless she can get one of the Cameron scholarships, as they
are called; and she has very little hope of that, although the