All the while Sylvie and Rodney had their own young disappointed thoughts. They could not say them out; the invitation had been given and been replied to as it must be; this was only a call with Aunt Euphrasia; everything that they might have in their minds could not be spoken, even if they could have seen it quite clearly enough to speak; they both felt when the half hour was over, as if they had said—had done—nothing that they ought, or wanted to. And neither knew it of the other; that was the worst.
When Rodney at last went out to untie his horse, Miss Euphrasia turned round to Sylvie with a question.
"Is this all quite safe and easy for you, dear?"
"Yes," returned Sylvie, frankly, understanding her. "I have given up all that worry. There is money enough for a good while if we don't mind using it. And it is mother's money; and Dr. Sainswell says she cannot have a long life."
Sylvie spoke the last sentence with a break; but her voice was clear and calm,—only tender.
"And after that?" Miss Kirkbright asked, looking kindly into her face.
"After that I shall do what I can; what other girls do, who haven't money. When the time comes I shall see. All that comes hard to me—after mother's feebleness—is the changing; the not staying of anything anywhere. My life seems all broken and mixed up, Miss Kirkbright. Nothing goes right on as if it belonged."
"'Lo, it is I; be not afraid,'" repeated Miss Kirkbright softly. "When things work and change, in spite of us, we may know it is the Lord working. That is the comfort,—the certainty."
The tenderness that had been in heart and voice sprang to tears in Sylvie's eyes, at that word.
"How do you think of such things?" she said, earnestly. "I shall never forget that now."