assistance in his power whenever she should choose to ask for
it.

The Old Lady had lived for twenty years in the firm conviction
that she would die in the poorhouse--as, indeed, seemed not
unlikely--before she would ask a favour of Andrew Cameron. And
so, in truth, she would have, had it been for herself. But for
Sylvia! Could she so far humble herself for Sylvia's sake?

The question was not easily or speedily settled, as had been
the case in the matters of the grape jug and the book of
poems. For a whole week the Old Lady fought her pride and
bitterness. Sometimes, in the hours of sleepless night, when
all human resentments and rancours seemed petty and
contemptible, she thought she had conquered it. But in the
daytime, with the picture of her father looking down at her
from the wall, and the rustle of her unfashionable dresses,
worn because of Andrew Cameron's double dealing, in her ears,
it got the better of her again.

But the Old Lady's love for Sylvia had grown so strong and
deep and tender that no other feeling could endure finally
against it. Love is a great miracle worker; and never had its
power been more strongly made manifest than on the cold, dull
autumn morning when the Old Lady walked to Bright River
railway station and took the train to Charlottetown, bent on
an errand the very thought of which turned her soul sick
within her. The station master who sold her her ticket thought
Old Lady Lloyd looked uncommonly white and peaked--"as if she
hadn't slept a wink or eaten a bite for a week," he told his