she regarded them, except in desperate moods, with shame. If her old
admirer had, indeed, attempted to sit by her side upon that
hair-cloth sofa and hold her hand, she would have arisen as if
propelled by stiff springs of modest virtue. She did not fairly know
that she was not made love to after the most honorable and orthodox
fashion without a word of endearment or a caress; for she had been
trained to regard love as one of the most secret of the laws of
nature, to be concealed, with shamefaced air, even from herself; but
she did know that Richard had never asked her to marry him, and for
that she was impatient without any self-reserve; she was even
confidential with her sister, Charlotte's mother.

"I don't want to say anything outside," she once said, "but I do
think it would be a good deal better for him if we was settled down.
He ain't half taken care of since his mother died."

"He's got money enough," returned Mrs. Barnard.

"That can't buy everything."

"Well, I don't pity him; I pity you," said Mrs. Barnard.

"I guess I shall get along a while longer, as far as that goes,"
Sylvia had replied to her sister, with some pride. "I ain't worried
on my account."

"Women don't worry much on their own accounts, but they've got
accounts," returned Mrs. Barnard, with more contempt for her sister
than she had ever shown for herself. "You're gettin' older, Sylvy."