In the afternoon Horace went out to make some arrangements which he had taken upon himself with regard to the dead woman, and presently Henry followed him.

Sylvia worked with feverish energy all the afternoon setting a room in order for her expected guest.

It was a pretty room, with an old-fashioned paper--a sprawling rose pattern on a tarnished satin ground.

The room overlooked the grove, and green branches pressed close against two windows.

There was a pretty, old-fashioned dressing-table between the front windows, and Sylvia picked a bunch of flowers and put them in a china vase, and set it under the glass, and thought of the girl's face which it would presently reflect.
"I wonder if she looks like her mother," she thought.