She put away the Bible, went into the pantry, and got out some bread
and cheese for her luncheon, but she could eat nothing. She picked
the apple blossoms and arranged them in the copper-gilt pitcher on
the best-room table. She even dusted off the hair-cloth sofa and
rocker, with many compunctions, because it was Sunday. "I know I
hadn't ought to do it to-day," she murmured, apologetically, "but
they do get terrible dusty, and need dusting every day, and he is
real particular, and he'll have on his best clothes."

Finally, just before twilight, Sylvia, unable to settle herself, had
gone over to her sister's for a little call. Richard never came
before eight o'clock, except in winter, when it was dark earlier.
There was a certain half-shamefaced reserve about his visits. He knew
well enough that people looked from their windows as he passed, and
said, facetiously, "There goes Richard Alger to court Sylvy Crane."
He preferred slipping past in a half-light, in which he did not seem
so plain to himself, and could think himself less plain to other
people.

Sylvia, detained at her sister's by the quarrel between Cephas and
Barnabas, had arisen many a time to take leave, all palpitating with
impatience, but her sister had begged her, in a distressed whisper,
to remain.

"I guess you can get along without Richard Alger one Sunday evening,"
she had said finally, quite aloud, and quite harshly. "I guess your
own sister has just as much claim on you as he has. I dunno what's
going to be done. I don't believe Charlotte's father will let her in
the house to-night."