"Works? Ferments, do you mean? Now you're talking sense. No unfermented grape juice in mine."
Sylvia laughed and looked around at Edna, who was grave and seemed waiting politely. "Poor Edna. She's tired," she thought, and nodding a good-night to John, she moved toward the stairs. "I'll see you when you come up, Edna," she added, and disappeared.
Dunham watched the light figure in its swift ascent, and then turned toward his hostess.
"She won't tell us," he announced, smiling.
"How could you keep on talking about it, John?" said Edna, speaking low.
His face fell at her tone. "Why not?" he asked blankly. "Have you changed your mind about its being a joke?"
"Oh—I"—Edna scarcely understood her own attitude toward the little incident, and hesitated most uncharacteristically. "I think it was rather foolish and—and unpleasant, somehow. I—good-night, John," she put out her hand and he took it. "I hope you won't know anything about the sunrise, and that the cradle of the deep won't be too noisy for you. You needn't lock up. Just close the doors and window when you're ready to come in. We don't insult Arcady with bolts. Good-night."
The following day dawned bright. Edna regarded the extraordinary light in Sylvia's eyes and her unwonted gayety of manner at the breakfast-table with mental questioning.
"The most annoying thing has occurred," she said. "This day of all days the carpenters for whom I've been waiting all summer have turned up. I shan't be able to leave home. Could you people wait until to-morrow to go over to the farm?"
"I'm afraid not," returned John. "I must go and report, as well as make myself more presentable. Who knows what to-morrow may be like? As probably as not Neptune will be throwing snowballs in all directions."