"For Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, hurrying to help her, "you ought to have been asleep hours ago! What have you got here?"
"Something to add to your bonfire," she said savagely, and as he took the great package from her, the white wrapping fell open, showing the contents to be inky black. "All the crepe I own! I won't wear it another day! I've been respectful to death—even if I couldn't be to the dead—and to convention long enough. I've swathed myself in that stuff for nearly fifteen months! I won't be such a hypocrite as to wear it another day! And if Thomas—and—and—Mr. Jessup and—and everybody—are going to pester the life out of me, I might just as well be in New York as here. I'm glad I'm going away."
"No one else is going to pester you," said Austin quietly, "and they won't any more. But you'll have a good time in New York—I think it's fine that you're going." He tossed the bundle into the very midst of the burning pile, and tried to speak lightly, pretending not to notice the excitement of her manner and the undried tears on her flushed cheeks. "I think you're just right about that stuff, too. Will this mean all sorts of fluffy pink and blue things, like what Flora Little wears? I should think you would look great in them!"
"No—but it means lots and lots of pure white dresses and plain black suits and hats, without any crepe. Then in the fall, lavender, and gray, and so on."
"I see—a gradual improvement. Won't you sit down a few minutes? It's a wonderful night."
"Thank you. Austin—you and Sally will have to help me shop when I get to
New York—Heaven knows what I can wear to travel down in."
Austin stopped raking, and flung himself down on the grass beside her.
"Sylvia," he said quickly, "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't go."
"Can't go! Why not?" she exclaimed, with so much disappointment in her voice that he was amazed.
"Father's a selectman now, you know, and away all day just at this time on town business. There's too much farmwork for Thomas and Peter to manage alone. I didn't foresee this, of course, when I accepted your uncle's invitation. I can't tell you how much it means to me to give it up, but you must see that I've got to."
"Yes, I see," she said gravely, and sat silently for some minutes, fingering the frill on her sleeve. Then she went on: "Uncle Mat wants me to stay a month or six weeks with him, and I think I ought to, after. deserting him for so long. When I come back, my own little house will be ready for me, and it will be warm enough for me to move in there, so I think these last few days will be 'good-bye.' Your family has let me stay a year—the happiest year of all my life—and I know your mother loves me—almost as much as I love her—and hates to have me go. But all families are better off by themselves, and in one way I think I've stayed too long already."