Sylvia rose, put down the book, marked it carefully as on that first occasion which so insistently comes back to us as we look in upon her.

Mary appeared at the library door, but withdrew, seeing that Sylvia was answering the bell.
Some one was stamping vigorously on the step, and as Sylvia opened the door, Dan Harwood stood there, just as on that other day; now, to be sure, he seemed taller than then, though it must be only the effect of his long ulster.
"How do you do, Sylvia," he said, and stepped inside without waiting for a parley like that in which Sylvia had engaged him on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in June.

"You oughtn't to try to hide; it isn't fair for one thing, and hiding is impossible for another." "It's too bad you came," said Sylvia, "for I should have been home to-morrow.

I came just because I wanted to be alone for a day." "I came," said Dan, laughing, "because I didn't like being alone." "I hope Aunt Sally isn't troubled about me.

I hadn't time to tell her I was coming here; I don't believe I really thought about it; I simply wanted to come back here once more before the house is turned over to strangers." "Oh, Aunt Sally wasn't worried half as much as I was.