Cousin Jacob threw back his head. "What a way out of trouble: to many an actor of that sort whom you love pretty well! You are very good to look at, Sylvia, my child, and any chance you could get on the stage would come from that. Bad business, hard business, dangerous business. Anyway, you're not strong yet. I have a proposal to make you. Come up with me to the farm for a while and drink milk."
"Why, Cousin Jacob!" Sylvia's cheeks had grown very white, and now a little color stole back into them. "Oh, you're kind!"
"Well, then, if you think so, come!"
"When?" Sylvia already had a sick dread of the little room upstairs and its thoughts.
"Now."
"To-day—to-night?" eagerly.
He nodded. "We may as well go to Portland to-night as to stay here. Then we'll go to the farm to-morrow."
Sylvia took his hand in both hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. "Forgive me," she begged.
"For what?"
"For being so—so snippy when I first came into the room; for not believing in you, nor wanting you."