"It is going to be, my dear. Judge Trent has promised."
The young artist caught her lip in her teeth and drew a long breath.
"Meanwhile you shouldn't waste time," went on Edna. "The Keenes,—you know Mr. and Mrs. Keene, the illustrators,—have an artist camp in the White Mountains. They are dear friends of mine. How should you like to go up there soon,—in a few days, if I find they will accept you?"
"Edna, you take my breath away."
"Yes, I know; but it would be the finest thing for you, especially if it led to your studying with them during the winter. I don't think there could be a better place for you than their studio. If Judge Trent consents, will you go? I can telegraph to-day. The camp lasts only for a short time, and I don't want you to miss it."
A strange commingling of delight and reluctance seethed in Sylvia's brain, and her thought flashed to Hawk Island.
"To go so soon!" she said, scarcely aware that she spoke.
"Yes, immediately, or it would not be worth while. Such an opportunity, Sylvia; and, if I read the sketches aright, the motive power that lay behind your guarding of those big berries would drive you much further than to the White Mountains."
"Yes. Oh, yes, Edna. What a friend you are!"
"Then it is settled?"