The two stole softly around the house on the grass to the open kitchen window, where they shamelessly remained to gaze and listen. They saw Sylvia leaning over the stove, carefully stirring something with a large spoon. Jenny turned from the sink.
"Will ye be havin' another stick, Miss Sylvia?"
"There's going to be a stick in it. Whoop!" whispered John.
"Only in the stove," replied Edna, as the fuel was added. "Cheer up, it's something good, anyway."
"What are ye after makin', Miss Sylvia?" asked the cook.
The girl pursed her smiling lips: "A philtre, Jenny. Did you ever hear of one?"
"Sure I have. We use them all the time in Boston. Mr. Derwent won't lave me even cook with water that ain't filtered. Sure, we don't need one here, and annyway, how could ye make one from berries?"
"This is a different kind of philtre. I'm brewing something that I hope will make somebody happy. A girl, Jenny. Me. This is to make me happy. That is, if it works like a charm,—and I think it will. I think it will." Sylvia repeated the words joyously as she watched and stirred.
"A love charm, is it!" ejaculated Jenny. Her mouth fell open, and she paused, staring, dish-towel in hand.
Sylvia laughed quietly. Her pretty, excited face, red from the sun and wind and with added color from the hot stove, nodded in the earnestness of her reply.