"
"I say it to make you realize the truth, because I'm honest."
Molly and Katherine were busy at the Homestead in those days, Sally and
Ruth in their own little houses; but Edith was at the brick cottage a
great deal. In spite of all Peter's loving care, and the treatment of a
great doctor whom Sylvia had insisted she should see in London, she was
not very strong, and found that she must still let the long days slip by
quietly, while the white hands, that had once been so plump and brown,
grew steadily whiter and slimmer. She came upon Sylvia one sultry
afternoon, folding and sorting little clothes, arranging them in neat,
tiny piles in the scented, silk-lined drawers of a new bureau, and after
she had helped her put them all in order, with hardly a word, she leaned
her head against Sylvia's and whispered:
"I do wish there were some for me."
"I know, dear; but you're very young yet. Many wives are glad when this
doesn't happen right away. Sally is."
"I know. But, you see, I feel that perhaps there never will be any for
me--and that seems really only fair--doesn't it?"
Sylvia was silent.
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