"
And Sylvia laughed with him. During the first months she had never
laughed. "I am getting to love that child as if she were my own," he said
to his wife later. "Whatever shall we do when she goes away? It won't be
long now, you'll see."
"Mercy! Don't you even speak of it!" rejoined Mrs. Gray. But she, too,
was brooding over the possibility in secret. "Are you sure you're
quite contented here, Sylvia?" she asked anxiously the next time they
were alone.
Sylvia laid down the dish she was wiping, and came and laid her cheek,
now growing softly pink again, against Mrs. Gray's. "Contented," she
echoed; "why, I'm--I'm happy--I never was happy in my whole life before.
But I shall freeze to death here this winter, unless you'll let me put a
furnace in this great house; and I want to glass in part of the big
piazza, and have a tiny little conservatory for your plants built off the
dining-room. Do you mind if I tear up the place that much more--you've
been so patient about it so far."
Mrs. Gray could only throw up her hands.
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