CHAPTER XIII

SYLVIA SEEKS AMUSEMENT

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