near the window through which came the soft May wind, she watched
them.

"Now, Pete," said Sylvie, "it's your turn. If I'm to learn the touch
of the blind, I must have practice. What can I make of you! Come here.
Why don't you come?" She stamped her foot. "My, but you are badly
trained. Really, Hugh, you ought to discipline him. Wait until I am
your sister-in-law."

Hugh started angrily. "Don't joke about that!" he threatened in a
harsh, sudden voice.

She turned toward him with quickness and bent her head sidelong as
though listening intently for what else he might have to say. Her
lips were set close and narrow. She had listened to him like this,
almost breathlessly, ever since her sudden faintness, listened as
though she would draw his very soul in through her ears.

He too flushed. "It's life and death to me, Sylvie," he pleaded.

"Life and death--life _or_ death," she repeated strangely. She stood,
as if turning the speech over in her mind, then gave her head a quick
little shake like a diver coming to the surface of deep water, and
moved a step toward Pete. "Are you coming, boy, or not? I want to
feel your face."

"Do as she says," Hugh commanded harshly, and Pete came slowly to
her and stood with his hands locked behind him, bending over the
little figure. She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a
shake, and smiled.