Henry opened his lips to speak, but a glance from Horace checked him.
Sylvia went on talking nervously. The odd manner and tone which Henry
had noticed lately in everything she said and did seemed intensified.
She talked about what room she should make ready for the girl. She
made plan after plan. She was very pale, then she flushed. She walked
aimlessly about gesturing with her floury hands.

Finally Henry took her firmly by the shoulder. "Come, Sylvia," he
said, "she won't be here until night. Now you had better get dinner.
It's past twelve." Sylvia gave a quick, frightened glance at him.
Then she went silently out of the room.

"Mrs. Whitman does not seem well," Horace said, softly.

"I think her nerves are all out of order with what she has gone
through with lately," said Henry. "It has been a great change that
has come to us both, Mr. Allen. When a man and woman have lived past
their youth, and made up their minds to bread and butter, and nothing
else, and be thankful if you get that much, it seems more like a slap
than a gift of Providence to have mince-pie thrust into their mouths.
It has been too much for Sylvia, and now, of course, this awful thing
that has happened has upset her, and--"

He stopped, for Sylvia opened the door suddenly. "If she wa'n't dead
and gone, I wouldn't believe one word of such a tomfool story," said
she, with vicious energy. Then she shut the door again.

At dinner Sylvia ate nothing, and did not talk. Neither Henry nor
Horace said much. In the afternoon Horace went out to make some
arrangements which he had taken upon himself with regard to the dead